


Downpour

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drama, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Control, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possession, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 69,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: After being exonerated for his crimes as the Winter Soldier, Bucky and Steve retire to a small town in Vermont to recover, rediscover each other, and live a quiet, normal life together.  Things are bright and full of promise until one rainy, fall day Bucky sees a mysterious girl who he's absolutely sure he killed under HYDRA's control.  As it turns out, you can't always run from your past.And sometimes when it rains, it pours.Part of the Stucky Scary Bang 2017.





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ , _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , and _Captain America: Civil War_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** E (for language, violence, rape, sexual content, adult situations, graphic imagery)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Based on this anonymous prompt from the 2017 Stucky Scary Bang:
> 
> _"After being cleared of all charges and having his trigger words removed, Bucky Barnes finally gets a reprieve. Retired from the role of Captain America , Steve settles into a quiet life with Bucky, somewhere far removed from all of the drama from the past two years. In their new home and town they start to rediscover themselves and each other. All seems perfect until the day Bucky looks up and sees a shadowy figure watching him from across the street. Maybe it wouldn't creep him out so much if the person didn't look just like one of the victims of the Winter Soldier. When Bucky goes to have a closer look, the figure disappears without a trace. Which should make sense because that person is dead. The Winter Soldier made sure of it._
> 
> _(This could be a real ghost story about a revenant that haunts Bucky, or you can take it in another direction that's more sinister like someone from Hydra or perhaps a relative of a WS victim stalking/trying to get revenge on Bucky)."_
> 
> Thus my Stucky Scary Bang fic was born. It definitely got way, _way_ out of control. I'd really like to thank junker5 for everything she did in helping me with this story, including beta-reading this monstrosity. She's an absolute blessing! 
> 
> I need to say this up front: this story is dark. Like dark-as-hell dark. Being a horror challenge, I went for it, and I think it's pretty horrible, a true treatise in torturing characters who deserve much better :-P. I'm going to list the specific reasons this fic gets the warnings it does in the end notes in case you want more information before diving in, but in generalities, here we go:
> 
>  **WARNING:** this story has extreme violence, disturbing imagery, scenes of torture, and rape. If that's not your cup of tea, please back out now. If it is, thanks for reading! Happy Halloween, everyone!

_“The hate I hate believing._  
_I never saw it coming._  
_You have your orders, soldier.”_  
– Mary Elizabeth McGlynn

 

“So this is it, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away.  He’s too excited to manage it as Steve turns their car down the driveway.  The house is set pretty far back, up a windy hill with a lone, unpaved road.  There are woods all around, thick with fir trees and deciduous ones that are burning golden and scarlet and amber as the midafternoon sun strikes the fall foliage.  As they continue a moment more, the forest peels back from the stone drive, and the house comes into view.

It’s nothing short of stately.  Tony said it was older, a Victorian design that’s maintained its presence and charm through the last century.  _“Fit for you two old farts,”_ he declared as he told Steve and Bucky about the new place he’d found for them.  Frankly Bucky has been wary for days about it, but the second they crossed the border from New York into Vermont and turned northward through rolling hills and expansive pastures into the Green Mountains…  Well, his doubts started to vanish.

Now those doubts are completely gone, replaced with awe and a mounting sense of unworthiness.  Flanking the stone drive on either side is the lawn, meticulously trimmed and flawlessly, brightly green on this pretty autumnal day.  Ahead flowerbeds line a large wooden porch, the last blooms of summer still lending a vibrant cheeriness.  The closer they get, the larger the house seems.  It has one tower, topped in brown shingles, on its east side.  The rest of the house stretches out to its left and right, white with large, pretty windows that have green, old-fashioned shutters.  And, again, there’s that porch.  It’s phenomenal, picturesque, huge with whitewashed wood planking and pillars that extend to the overhang.  The front door is up a few steps that were adorned with mums, hearty and amber.  The whole thing is utterly stunning.  “You sure this is the place?” he asks Steve.

Steve pulls the Range Rover along the cul de sac that comes up to the house.  He looks surprised, too, and awestruck as he stops and puts the SUV into park.  “Think so,” he says.  He has that devious little smirk he gets sometimes when he’s particularly pleased with himself.  He knows a lot more about the house than Bucky does, seeing as how he arranged it.  He worked out the details with Stark, _paid_ for it (a fact Bucky still can’t get his head around – that Steve can afford something like _this_ so easily).  He set everything up and took care of it all.  As he put it back in New York, Bucky has dealt with enough given everything that went on the last six months since the Avengers found him on the run from HYDRA in Europe.  Steve wanted to do this for him, so he did.  He keeps claiming some ridiculous nonsense about Bucky earning this, about him deserving the quiet, simple life after everything he went through, the war and then being captured and tortured and turned against himself for seventy years.  Steve thinks it’s a blessing he’s alive.

He’s right about that.  Bucky’s recovery from the trauma he endured as the Winter Soldier is nothing short of a downright miracle.  With Steve’s constant faith, tender love, and steadfast support, he’s reclaimed his life, pulled _Bucky_ out of the hell in his head.  Wanda and Vision eradicated the programming HYDRA put in his mind, erasing the trigger words the evil organization used to force him to serve them, expunging the brainwashing and restoring the memories he has of his life before the fall from the train in the Swiss Alps in 1945.  Tony repaired and upgraded his arm, ridding the prosthesis of HYDRA’s “shitty tech” as he put it, and with Bruce’s aid, they enhanced the bionic limb’s sensory functionalities while bettering the neural pathways to and from it.  They also surgically improved the anchors inside his left shoulder socket, so he’s finally rid of the pain that became such a constant in his life.  And Sam offered counseling.  And Natasha came out of her own shell to help Bucky accept the blood on his hands by using her own difficult past as a guide.  And Steve.  And _everything_ Steve has done for him.

Indeed, it took a great deal of effort and patience on everyone’s part, but he’s healing.  Slowly but surely the damage is being undone.  He’s learned to talk to other people again, slowly reintegrating into normal existence.  He’s learned to take care of himself in a normal setting, to function day to day in this new world, and he’s eaten enough for the first time in seventy years to feel _well_ , to regain weight after months of austere survival, to return a healthy shine to his hair and skin and eyes.  He’s learned to sleep again, to quiet thoughts that now sometimes ran rampant without HYDRA’s chains about them.  In fact, he’s sleeping peacefully for the first time in _forever_ with Steve at his side. He’s learned to appreciate everything, _everyone_ , every moment he has.  He’s learned to atone, to make peace with the past, to move on.

He’s learned there’s a life beyond the pain, and the future is before him, wide and vast with its arms open and welcoming.  He’s been walking toward it, shuffling and stilted at first, then simply tentative, and now more confidently.  Steve’s been with him every step of the way, helping him find his path.  Helping him as he’s taken himself back, mind, body, and soul.  Steve’s been integral to it all, as much a part of him _as_ his mind, body, and soul.  Steve’s woven into the fabric of his being, the energy that powers his heart, the thoughts that fill his newly freed spirit.  Steve’s everything.

And Steve’s still grinning like a little shit.  “Wanna go in?”

Bucky can’t even be annoyed at his smugness, too overwhelmed that Steve _bought them a house._   That Steve retired for him, gave the shield to Sam, gave up being Captain America just so they can be together and live in peace and quiet.  That Steve’s here, trying to seem so nonchalant about it all when Bucky knows he’s just as excited about this as he is.  Steve’s never been able to hide how he’s feeling from Bucky, especially not when he’s happy.

Right now he’s beaming.  So’s Bucky, frankly.  “You kiddin’?” he says, trying to keep his voice level.  “I mean, we came all this way.  Be kind of a waste otherwise.”

“Would be,” Steve agrees, and then he leans across the way for a kiss.  Bucky meets him halfway, the leather of the seats crackling.  He opens his mouth to it, and Steve cups his face, thumbs tracing through the hints of a beard lining his jaw.  It’s like a ghost of they had, of everything they once wanted, is being breathed back to life, and they’re been basking in it.  So much good.  It really is a blessing, astounding, incredible.  _Breathtaking._

“Never even gonna make it inside at this rate,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s lips when he finally comes up for air.

Bucky smiles, chuckles.  “That’d be a shame.  How many rooms does this joint have?”

Steve took another kiss, thrusting his tongue into Bucky’s mouth possessively.  “A lot.”

Bucky’s grin gets even wider.  “That’s a lot of christening we need to do.”  Steve laughs.  “Let’s get crackin’.”

Steve laughs and playfully pushes Bucky back.  “Can we at least look around before we hop in the sack?”

“Yeah, you mook.”  His nonchalance mostly a front, and he’s thinks Steve’s is too, given the issues they’ve had with being intimate.  But Bucky’s way too excited to think about sex right now anyway, and he’s opening the door in short order and hopping out of the car.  The cool air feels good and fresh as he takes a gigantic breath of it.  Then he looks over the house again.  It’s even more amazing up close, old and palatial, like a proud testament to a quieter, simpler era.  He can’t get over it, shaking his head, arms folded over his chest.  “Wow.”

Steve rounds the front of the car, the pebbles of the drive crunching under his shoes as he comes to stand at Bucky’s side.  He appraises the house himself.  “Yeah, ‘wow’ about covers it.”  He pulls his right hand out of his jeans and reaches out to tug Bucky’s metal arm away from his chest.  He folds their fingers together.  “Shall we?”

Bucky nods, and they head up the steps onto the porch.  The wood planks creak loudly as they step on them; it’s surely not the original porch.  It’s in way too good shape, and Bucky looks up and down it.  It curves around the corner of the house where the turret is, and he wonders what’s down there.  Hanging plants evenly line the awning, dangling over the railing and banisters.  There are a couple of wicker chairs complete with nice cushions down the other way.  Unbidden comes this image of he and Steve sitting there, rocking and drinking iced tea and enjoying the quiet while watching the sunset like two old marrieds…  He likes it, smiling and squeezing Steve’s hand.  He’s not sure how they got here.  How far they’ve come from two young men hiding their love in Brooklyn and terrified of being found out to the war and the stolen moments amidst the blood and death and horror to their respective long winters and all the trauma that came from that…  It’s astounding that they’re together, that they found each other again, that all this darkness and violence and pain is behind them.  Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wrap his mind around that, that it’s _over._

And it really is.  After months of struggling to pull himself out of HYDRA’s hell, after inquiries and investigations and trials, after exposés and hearings before Congress, after _all that_ President Ellis pardoned him.  This was just last month, the climactic end to a battle that began for Bucky in a lab in Nazi Germany in 1943 where Arnim Zola first pumped his lousy version of Erskine’s serum into him.  The second it became public knowledge that the Avengers found him and brought him back to the States, the demands for his arrest began.  Steve of course went to bat for him, staking all the good reputation and clout he has as Captain America on Bucky’s innocence.  For Steve, there was never a question of that.  He can see things so black or white.  He always has, and he still does.  It’s a tough thing to swallow, because Bucky wasn’t then and isn’t now sure he _is_ innocent.  Yes, he was tortured and brainwashed, programmed and conditioned, put in that chair and electrocuted until his mind was scorched of its morals and memories and ripe for the taking.  Yes, he was a prisoner of war turned slave for HYDRA’s cause, a soldier made into an assassin.  Yes, he had no choice but to follow his directives, to burn and murder and kidnap and torture himself, to be the fist of HYDRA as Zola wanted.  All of that was true.

But it’s not an excuse.  It’ll never be one, no matter how extenuating his circumstance are.  No matter _who_ pardons him.  The Congressional hearings ended with all the data concerning his long nightmare coming to light.  Despite Bucky murdering Tony’s parents (a horrific fact that came out during the initial investigations), Tony went before Congress to bear everything he found in the SHIELD data dump, to show them all the lengths to which HYDRA went to keep Bucky prisoner.  All the Avengers came to his defense, stood beside their captain to insist Bucky’s crimes as the Winter Soldier were not his doing. Unanimously they pled for understanding and leniency.  It was granted, once all the rhetoric and politics and associated bullshit was through.  President Ellis sat in the Oval Office before the nation a couple weeks back and very boldly declared that the Winter Soldier was a hero subjected to torture beyond anyone’s understanding, a man who had endured countless dehumanizing and violent procedures to brainwash him, a victim himself in the truest sense of the word.  Ellis boldly and simply declared all legal proceedings against James Barnes null and void.

Bucky still isn’t sure if the President actually has the power to do that.  It doesn’t matter, because with the release of the videos and files concerning his captivity, with the fact that has become very public knowledge that he and Steve are far more than “best friends since childhood”, the American public has come behind him.  He can’t fathom how that happened.  Obviously the good folk of this country weren’t aware of just _how close_ the Winter Soldier came to making sure Project: Insight launched and eradicated millions of innocents on the eastern seaboard.  Or how close he came to murdering Captain America, Captain America who threw down his goddamn shield and _let_ the Winter Soldier beat him senseless all because of a fool’s hope that the man inside the killing machine could be reached.  If people knew these things, they would have never accepted, let alone celebrated, Bucky’s exoneration.  Not that everyone has, but enough people have embraced it that Bucky feels all the worse for the massive wave of acceptance and compassion.

Of course, all the acceptance and compassion from his asshole boyfriend is the icing on the guilt cake.  This is the same asshole boyfriend who defied orders and flew into enemy territory with no support in order to save the 107th (and Bucky, of course.  No reason to forget _that_ ) from a HYDRA prison camp in 1943.  The same asshole boyfriend who selflessly (and thoughtlessly and sometimes downright recklessly) risked his life on the regular to help just about anyone who needed it.  Who threw down that goddamn shield on the Insight helicarrier as it fell out of the sky.  Who searched endlessly for Bucky after that, through hidden HYDRA lairs haunted by the ghosts and demons of the past.  Who brought him back even though it nearly fractured the team at first, who stood firm beside him no matter how bad things got, who _insisted_ Bucky could get better even when no one else believed it including Bucky himself.  The same one who went before the nation and the world and asked for clemency for HYDRA’s most decorated murderer with nothing bit genuine sincerity in his heart and conviction in his voice and integrity behind his words.

And the same one who bought him a house, who gave up being Captain America, so they can retire in peace and have a chance at a quiet, comfortable, _normal_ life.  The same one who is staring at him now with nothing but love in his deep, blue eyes.  Steve fished around in the pocket of his leather jacket for a moment before producing a set of keys.  “You want to do the honors, or should I?” he asks.

“Not right for me to do it,” Bucky says.  “This was all you.”

“For you, though,” Steve reminds with a soft smile.  He knows he’s treading just a little bit into touchy territory.  When Bucky genuinely frowns, he tips his head in concession.  “Okay.  For us.”

“Open our house, asshole.”

Steve chuckles and slides the key into the lock.  “Want me to carry you over the threshold or somethin’?”

“Always dreamed back home that it’d be the other way,” Bucky comments wryly.

Steve grins.  “Not your dame, Buck.”  That’s what he always used to say when Bucky would make some stupid comment about how beautiful Steve is or how sweet he is or how much Bucky loved loving him.  How he always used to tease Steve when he came home stinking to high heaven from a rough day at work to find supper waiting and the apartment squeaky clean because Steve made himself useful while recovering from his latest illness or in between drawing jobs.  Steve’s _not_ anything like a dame, definitely not now but not even when he was little and scrawny and fair with that floppy blond hair and big, blue eyes.  He’s always been tough as nails, all hard, sharp edges when he wants to be, and he was frankly more of a man than most the men Bucky had the pleasure (or more often than not displeasure) of knowing when they were growing up.  Steve’s always had more heart and guts than anything else, though at least now he’s got a body that matches what’s inside.  A _hell_ of a body, more perfect than anyone’s got any right to be thanks to the serum.

But it’s still fun riling Steve up just a little.  Bucky remembers this very clearly, how much he loved the embarrassed flush on Steve that rarely stayed put.  If Bucky got him going just right, that nice blush burned _all_ the way down.  Right now, it’s contained to his cheeks, but the pink hue goes darker and stronger the second he gets the door open because Bucky moves fast, spinning Steve and dropping his shoulder under Steve’s midriff.  He used to do this back in Brooklyn, too, heaving a hundred-pound Steve Rogers up and over his shoulder and listening to Steve sputter in embarrassment and laugh and demand Bucky put him down.  Thanks to his enhanced muscles, he can still do it, even though Steve weighs something like two hundred-fifty pounds now and is as strong as steel.  And Steve’s laughing and arguing just like he used to as Bucky hauls him over his shoulder and carries him like a sack of potatoes inside.

“Damn it, you jerk,” Steve gasps as Bucky sets him back down.  He socks him in the shoulder, smiling and still so flushed, and Bucky fists his jacket and hauls him in for a kiss.  The keys clatter to the floor as Steve grabs his face.  Very quickly this kiss turns as demanding and passionate, tangled tongues and Steve’s fingers in Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s grip firm on Steve’s hips, and it’s only because Steve reluctantly pulls back that things calm down.  He smiles, bracing his forehead to Bucky’s.  “Welcome home, Buck.”

 _God._   It’s not possible to love someone more than this.  It’s just not.  Bucky can’t find the words to express what he’s feeling, the deep, pervasive sense of well-being, of peace, of completion.  For the first time since he’s rediscovered himself, he feels undeniably _right,_ like this is what’s meant to be.  Where he’s meant to be.  _Who_ he’s meant to be.  So he gasps a little sob, one that hopefully doesn’t sound as ridiculously happy and _sappy_ as he’s feeling.

Steve seems to understand anyway.  Bucky swears he sees the glitter of tears in his eyes before he blinks them away and takes a deep breath.  “Let’s look around.”

They do, hand in hand.  The house has an undeniable presence to it, old and commanding and maybe a little intimidating.  It’s not so much because it’s bad but because it’s _way_ nicer than anything Bucky’s ever had.  Granted he’s been living in the lap of luxury these last few months in the Avengers complex.  Tony spends what he has, that’s for sure.  But Bucky was always a guest there, and he never felt quite right living off the good graces of anyone else, let alone the son of two of his victims.

This?  This is _his._   This is supposed to be his house, his _home_.  His place with Steve.  It’s weird, tentative, like feeling someone out who you know is going to be important to your future.  And it’s even odder given that this isn’t a _someone._ It’s a _something._

And it’s as huge on the inside as it looks on the outside.  Gleaming hardwoods stretch from wall to wall.  The living room is right in front of them, spacious and complete with a massive fireplace.  To the left there’s a study and a powder room that’s bigger than the whole of their old apartment back in Brooklyn.  Down the main hallway is the dining room and kitchen.  There are already furnishings everywhere, couches and tables and decorations.  Paintings and draperies and vases and rugs.  It’s all part of some sort of modern cottage theme, rich, dark woods and deep colors offset by creams, whites, and tans.  Bucky doesn’t know shit about home décor, let alone modern aesthetics, but this looks _really_ expensive and nice.  Again, it’s nicer than anything he’s ever had or dreamed of having.

Steve grimaces a little at the fancy display as they make their way deeper into the kitchen, past the huge island with its inset gas cooktop and gleaming granite counters and state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances.  Swanky doesn’t really describe it.  Steve sets his hand to the breakfast bar, which has plates set out in a perfectly arranged scene complete with silverware, napkins, placemats, and a vase of fresh flowers.  “Lord,” he breathes, looking over the display.  “Tony told me he was gonna get some things set up.  Buy some stuff as a house-warming gift.  Obviously he hired an interior decorator or somethin’.”  He turns around to look at Bucky, sheepish.  “If you don’t like this stuff, we can get other stuff–”

“Christ, Steve,” Bucky says, looking around in utter incredulity.  He swallows a lump in his throat.  “I got no right to complain about _anythin’._ ”

“Not this again.”  Steve frowns.  “I’ll say it as many times as I have to.  You can have opinions.  You can choose.  You _deserve_ to have good things, Buck.  You _deserve_ to feel good.  You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sometimes Bucky envies how Steve thinks.  It’s not naiveté exactly, because Steve knows better than anyone just how cruel and dark and dangerous this life can be, but he has such a strict adherence to his core beliefs of right and wrong.  His moral compass is infallible and unwavering.  He’s utterly incorruptible, pure in a way very few things are.  Evil never seems to affect him, to damage him or change him.  Even when the darkness is at its the closest, he stands firm and holds true to his heart.

The thing is, though, the real world isn’t always so clear.  Bucky knows that so very well.  And Bucky knows that Steve knows that.  Well, at least he _thinks_ he does, but it’s in an abstract sense because Steve has never done evil.  He’s known it, seen it, fought against it, but it’s never gotten its claws into him.  That’s who Steve is, what Captain America is.  Unbreakable and untouchable.  And the fact is that Steve’s overcompensating.  He has been since he got Bucky back, all through the trials and inquiries.  There are times when Bucky needs that, needs to hear this isn’t his fault, and other times when he can hardly stand the idea of excusing himself.

Right now he doesn’t want to think about it, let alone debate it again.  “It’s fine.  Looks amazing.  And it’s not like I got a flair for home-making or anything.  I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

That only brings the contrast of all of this so sharply into focus again.  They’re two soldiers who have been through hellfire, through things that would destroy anyone else.  They’re battle-hardened and scarred, but now they’re _here_ , in this nice kitchen in this amazing house with all the glamour and power and stately charm of an older era but all the amenities that modern technology can provide.

Steve stares at him like he’s trying to see beneath Bucky’s exterior.  When they were kids, Steve never looked at him like this, with so much worry under the not-at-all convincing veneer of nonchalance.  It used to be Bucky who did it to Steve, not trusting Steve to be honest about how bad his cough was or if he needed extra money this month or if his ribs were bruised up worse that it seemed.  The role reversal isn’t entirely pleasant.  Bucky doesn’t like how it feels, both the scrutiny and the guilt that comes with it for making Steve worry.

But he’s not going to let that get to him again, not today.  He smiles, and it comes easily enough, and reaches over to take Steve’s hand.  “Show me more.”

They go upstairs next.  It’s a four-bedroom house, which is way more space than they need.  The bedrooms are huge, decorated in the same style as the rest of the house.  Steve talks excitedly about turning one into an art studio, and Bucky’s too in awe of both how amazing Steve looks as he plans and babbles and how incredible this space is for them.  The other two rooms Steve says can be anything.  “We probably oughta have a place for someone to sleep.  Guest room, I guess.  Sam says he wants to come visit after we get settled.”

 _Guests.  In our house._   “Yeah,” Bucky says, smiling.

“The other is yours if you want.”

 _God._ “Hell, Steve, this is–”

“I know.”  Steve beams.

_A home._

“Let me show you our room.”  Steve leads him down the hallway to the end of it.  Bucky realizes from the open, circular space that this is the turret.  The master bedroom is spectacular, with a huge bed that has a wrought-iron frame adorned in blue and gray bedding and pillows.  Masculine and sleek.  There’s _another_ fireplace, and in front of that is a sitting area.  Windows line the tower, huge and perfectly cleaned, and they reveal a lake.

“Holy shit,” Bucky whispers as he beholds it.  He had _no idea_ this house is on land like this.  It’s not a huge lake, but it’s sizeable, stretching for a few hundred feet and twinkling with silver ripples under the autumn sun.  Steve opens a door to the side of the bank of windows, leading them out onto the deck.  Bucky comes closer, shaking his head in stupefaction that _this_ is their backyard.  The deck goes out a couple dozen feet, and there are stairs that go down to a stone patio below, a beautiful one flanked by flower beds and a rock fountain.  From there their yard with its grass so green dips down a hill, one that’s surrounded by woods that glow with color.  There’s a walkway, one that weaves back and forth around some trees so that it’s not so steep to traverse.  At the bottom of that, extending out into the water, is a dock.

 _Their_ dock on _their_ lakeshore that’s part of _their_ yard and _their_ house.  Bucky stands beside Steve on the deck, overlooking the trees and the grass and the shimmering lake, and it’s so perfect he can’t even think.  “Holy shit,” he manages again.

“This is the reason I picked this place,” Steve says, awestruck himself.  He takes a second to breathe, to look it over and take it all in.  “Come next summer, we’ll be swimming in that.  And boating.”

“What about fishing?” Bucky adds playfully.  “Always wanted to try that.”

“Heard it’s real boring,” Steve says.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow.  “Ain’t that what life’s sposed to be like now?  Boring?”

“Not boring.  Quiet.”

Bucky smiles to that.  “Well, you done did good, Stevie, if that was your goal.  This is…”  He looks around again, breathing deeply of the crisp air and letting himself really feel how good this is.  “I don’t have words.”

“Eh,” Steve says, putting his arm around Bucky and pulling him close.  “I don’t need ’em.  Seeing you smile like this is good enough.”

 _Sap._   Bucky can’t make himself say it, though.  He’s still reeling with it all, with just how amazing this really is.  He can’t lie; when Steve first suggested this a few days ago, he had doubts.  Now…  “Thank you,” he murmurs.  “I guess that’s a start to what I have to say.”

Steve buries his face into Bucky’s hair, pressing a couple kisses there.  “You’re welcome.  But I mean it.  You don’t have to say anything.  This is…”  He sighs.  “I think it’s what we need.  What we both need.  I couldn’t keep going after everything that’s happened, either.  It was too hard.  Hurt too much.”  He doesn’t elaborate.  He really doesn’t need to.  Maybe Bucky’s trauma has been in the spotlight the last months, but Steve’s is there, too, quiet and subtle but ever-present.  Steve’s been through his own slew of serious shit.  Most of it involves Bucky, but not all of it does.  The burden of being Captain America isn’t always so easy to bear.  It wasn’t during the war, and it isn’t now, now with the Avengers and the country and sometimes the whole world looking to Steve to make the tough choices, to protect them and defeat the bad guys and do it right all the time.  That’s a hefty responsibility, one Bucky has never liked.  Steve handles it with grace and confidence and aplomb, but Bucky knows him well enough that he can see the strain.  Underneath the mantle of Captain America, Steve’s still just Steve, and he hurts silently.

And then there are the parts of Steve’s trauma that _are_ directly tied to Bucky.  There are many horrors Bucky wishes he could undo or at the very least forget, but at the top of that list is the fight on the helicarrier where he shot Steve three times and stabbed him and beat him to hell before nearly letting him drown.  Maybe it’s selfish that he regrets this so deeply; he killed so many people, committed so many horrors under HYDRA’s control, that what he did to Steve isn’t even nearly the worst.  It feels that way to him, though.  It haunts him more than anything else, a memory that’s never entirely quiet or gone.

So even though Steve’s never said a thing about it, Bucky thinks it scares him too sometimes.  There’s been a moment here and there where Bucky’s touch has caught Steve by surprise, startled him or frightened him.  He always clamps down on it so hard and fast, so much so that it’s damn hard to detect, but Bucky doesn’t think it’s just his overactive sense of guilt that’s making him see it.  As with everything else, Steve overcompensates for Bucky’s sake.

But, again, this isn’t something they need to work out just this moment.  Steve’s right.  That’s why they’re here.  They both need time to heal, to rediscover each other.  Moreover, for all their flirting and big talk about sex, they really haven’t had it yet.  Not all the way.  There’s been a lot of kissing.  Kissing is safe.  Heavy petting?  That seems safe, too.  Nothing below the belt, though, so to speak.  There are a lot of reasons behind that, and because of those it never feels quite right.  Bucky experienced a serious loss of autonomy (to put it mildly) under HYDRA’s control.  His body was modified, _touched_ , without his consent.  That’s a big hurdle to overcome.  There’s depression and anxiety wrapped up in that.  What they used to have before was so easy and pure and perfect.  Innocent.  They’re not the people now that they were before, so going back to that seems so daunting.  It’s probably impossible.  They have to forge a new definition of who they are together.

Plus there are all Bucky’s insecurities and fears.  They’re so much quieter than they were, but they’re there.  Fear of losing his control.  Of the Winter Soldier breaking out of the cage Wanda and Vision helped him build.  Fear that he’ll hurt someone – _Steve_ – again.  Fear that those little flinches he thinks he sees in Steve are real.

Yeah, they have a lot to smooth out between them.  This seems like the perfect place to do it.  Like Steve said, it’s quiet.  Peaceful.  Private.

Perfect.

“Do you like it?” Steve asks.  There’s genuine anxiety in his voice, like he’s truly afraid Bucky will say no.

As if Bucky _can_ say no.  He can still hardly come up with anything to say at all.  “Yeah, God, Steve…  You bought us all of this.  Of course I like it.”  He turns and kisses Steve insistently and Steve jerks at first – _it’s just surprise_ – before happily melting into it.

They stand there in the silence, enjoying it and each other, kissing and breathing and _feeling_ how good this is, the excitement and promise of everything they can have, everything they’ve ever _dreamed_ of back in Brooklyn and during the war…  It’s all here.  They can have it.   No Captain America.  No Winter Soldier.  Just Steve and Bucky, the way it should be, the way it’s _meant to be–_

“Excuse me.”

With a wet sound they break their kiss.  It’s almost comical how they both scramble to protect the other, Bucky out of instinct deeply ingrained into his being and Steve in this newfound role of his (well, not that newfound, but it’s definitely ramped up since he’s recovered Bucky).  They both immediately go tense, trying to inch up in front of one another to block whatever threat’s found them already.

As it turns out, it’s not a threat at all.  An old man stands there, a cane in his hand.  He was probably once pretty tall, but now his back is bent and his stature is withered.  His face is thin and heavily wrinkled, skin spotted and thin and hanging a bit, particularly from his chin and neck.  He’s bald, though a line of thin, white hair circles the back of his head that’s streaked in just a few places with light gray, which makes Bucky imagine his hair must have been black or deep brown in his youth.  Even though his body is aged, his eyes are bright, a deep, deep brown that seems shrewd and not entirely friendly.

And familiar.

Though that sense is pretty fleeting, a little tickle of _I’ve seen him before_ that comes suddenly and vanishes just as abruptly.  Bucky narrows his eyes, reeling just a little in discomfort.  This is how his brain works now, how it deals with the damage.  Memories come randomly, sometimes without any context and sometimes incorrectly, like his neurons are firing for the sake of firing.  It’s like his brain is tricking itself into remembering things, because the second that weird sensation fades, he’s sure he’s never seen this guy before.

Steve notices his discomfort, however brief.  He finally wins the war of overprotectiveness, stepping in front of Bucky.  “Hi,” he greets, though his tone his wary.

The old man frowns.  “I apologize for startling you.  The door was open, and no one was answering.”

 _So you just come inside?_   That’s… rude and presumptuous and weird.  “Yeah, sorry,” Steve says.  “Got carried away in looking around.”  The guy just stares, which seems even weirder and ruder.  Steve glances at Bucky, sharing a look that screams _what the hell,_ before donning a nice smile.  He offers his hand.  “Hi.  I’m Steve.”  He doesn’t say his last name, of course.  Most people don’t link the name to the image of Captain America off the bat, and most don’t really recognize Steve’s face, even after the hearings about the Winter Soldier and all the press Steve has gotten since being found in the ice.  Still, there’s always a chance the guy will make the connection. 

He doesn’t seem to, though it’s hard to tell.  He’s still staring at them inscrutably, and Steve’s hand stays there, unshaken.  The old man’s eyes settle on Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t like it at all.  That creepy feeling works over him again.  He still _thinks_ he’s never seen this guy before, but damn if it doesn’t feel like he has.

Then again, can he even know for sure?

Finally the old man seems to snap out of his consideration of them.  He takes up Steve’s hand.  His trembles as he does.  “John,” he declares.  “I live down the road.  Saw you drive in.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and his smile relaxes a little.  “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” John returns, and now he really does smile.  It’s a fairly nice one, amiable, but Bucky thinks it feels forced.  He doesn’t like this, though he can’t say why exactly.  Fucking paranoia.  “I was wondering who was going to buy this house.  It’s been on the market forever.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Steve says.  Now that the handshake is finally done, he puts his hands in his jeans pockets.  “Guess with the market the way it is…”

“This place has always been too big for the area,” John says.  “Too big and too much money.”  Bucky can’t tell if he’s purposefully being ornery and insulting or if he just doesn’t realize.  There was a man who used to live in their building back in Brooklyn.  Bucky can’t remember his name (he probably wouldn’t be able to even without HYDRA breaking his brain), but the guy was always demeaning people.  He had a particular way of doing it, tactless and uninhibited.  It always made Bucky wonder if the old bastard was just dense and lacking in any social graces or inwardly cruel.  This is the same way.

Steve’s too nice to call him out on it.  “Oh, is it?”

“Mine’s not nearly so showy,” John says, looking back at the house.  “Or fancy inside.  Young people these days…  You want all the charm of the past but none of the sincerity.”

Oh, the freaking irony.  Steve’s more amused than offended, glancing at Bucky and probably thinking the same thing.  If this guy only knew…  The two of them are probably older than him.  “Well, we have a friend who likes things fancy, I guess.  That’s not our way so much.”

The old guy wrinkles his nose, looking between Steve and Bucky, and the disgust is practically tangible.  “And what way is your way exactly?”

Yeah, that’s not at all subtle.  Hiding the true nature of their relationship isn’t exactly a new concept, but John’s already seen them kissing, so why even ask?  What the hell game is this guy playing?  And he’s staring at Bucky again.  At Bucky _specifically._   Maybe John does recognize them, even with Bucky’s arm covered by his coat and gloves on, even in plain clothes and _here_ , of all places.  Maybe he’s pissed at the idea that Captain America is gay or that a national icon is being defiled by the Winter Soldier.  It doesn’t matter.

Frankly Bucky would like to clean the guy’s clocks.  Steve has more patience and grace than he does.  “Our way,” he says simply with a compassionate smile.  “You don’t have to worry about it.”

John is utterly cold.  “Well, you might have to.  This is a quiet town.  Quiet area.  Keep it quiet.”

 _Christ._   “Not a problem,” Steve says, still so calm.  “Quiet is what we came for.”  He glances at Bucky again.  “This is James, by the way.”

John doesn’t extend his hand.  Bucky doesn’t extend his, or introduce himself further, or even really look at him.  The feeling seems to be mutual.  Neither of them acknowledge the other at all aside from a hard glance or two.  Steve doesn’t seem to notice the tension specifically between them, and he starts trying to make small talk with John.  Doing neighborly duties and all that.  Bucky’s too uncomfortable to follow it, and John doesn’t seem interested in chatting, so Steve’s attempts to be cordial die pretty pathetically.  “Um…” he stammers after the awkwardness gets to be too much.  “Would you like a cup of coffee or somethin’?  I’m sure we can scrounge up–”

“No,” John says curtly.  He nods, more to himself than anything, like he’s done sizing them up.  “No, that’s fine.  I need to be going.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Steve says.  Bucky doesn’t know where everyone gets this idea that Steve can’t act.  He’s feigning disappointment pretty damn well right now.  Steve eyes the cane and how much John is leaning on it.  “I don’t mind driving you back down to your place.”

“Not necessary,” John says tightly, like he’s affronted by the idea he needs aid.  “It’s just down the drive at the bottom.”  Bucky remembers seeing a little house down there, gray and set back into the woods.  It’s definitely a direct opposite of this opulent place, just like John suggested before.  Modest and dark and almost sad.  “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

Then off he goes.  No _have a nice evening_ or _enjoyed talking to you_ or even _welcome to the neighborhood._   He simply shuffles away, the cane clicking as he heads down the deck this time and around the patio to the walk that leads back to the front of the house.  Bucky stands there at the railing of the deck and watches him go.

When John’s safely out of earshot, Steve sighs.  “Well, that was… weird.  And off-putting.”  To put it mildly.  “What an asshole.  Who the hell lets themselves into your house just because the door’s open?  Giving us grief for what we were doing…  Obviously his mother didn’t teach him a lick of manners.  Buck?”  Bucky doesn’t answer, still staring into the yard where John went.  Steve’s hand on his shoulder nearly makes him jump.  “Hey, Buck, what’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky says quickly, flushing in embarrassment.  He turns, trying to banish this unnerved feeling in his gut.  He takes Steve’s hand off his shoulder and kisses it.  “Guess I just wasn’t expectin’ someone to come callin’ so soon.”

Steve gives a sad smile.  He knows about Bucky’s issues with strangers, with this feeling he gets of being judged or doubted.  “I know.  It’s fine.  Doesn’t mean anything.”  He comes closer, so sweet and comforting, cupping Bucky’s face.  He kisses his forehead.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Not worrying,” Bucky says, and it’s mostly true.  Mostly.

Steve doesn’t question him on it.  “Come on.  Let’s go back inside, huh?  See if I can find something to whip up for dinner.”

Bucky lets it roll off his back.  It’s not hard to do, not with Steve smiling so brightly and kissing him so tenderly.  They head back in the house, and Bucky can’t help but frown at the thought of that old bastard wandering up and through their bedroom.  How the hell did he get up here so fast?  They can’t have been here more than a half an hour.  Did John (John with no last name – that’s unsettling, too.  The guy didn’t even offer it) _really_ walk all the way up that drive from that house down there and go into their home and up the stairs to the second floor and to the master suite and out onto the deck with that shuffling gait and dependence on the cane?

Doesn’t seem so likely.

But he doesn’t dwell.  They head back downstairs.  Steve contacts Sam to let him know they made it okay, and that turns into a video call as Sam’s phone gets handed around the team.  Tony’s glee is barely contained and only a little annoying as he babbles about all the stuff he did, the things he bought and the designers Pepper hired but mostly about tech he installed.  Natasha and Clint are smiling, chatting, glad that Steve and Bucky have found their safe haven.  Wanda wants a tour, which Steve gives her by walking around a little with the phone.  She’s laughing, and he’s beaming, and Bucky can’t help but feel a little guilty yet again for taking Steve from the team.  They’re like his family, and though no one (least of all Steve) has made Bucky feel bad about the Avengers losing their leader, Bucky blames himself.

Sam smiles at him as the phone makes its way into Bucky’s hands.  “How’s it feel?” Sam asks.  He’s been such a good friend to Steve over the last couple years, and despite their initial distrust of each other, Sam’s become a good friend of Bucky’s, too.  He’s one of the best: decent, sure, strong, and level-headed.

All of the things Bucky’s not sure he can be anymore.  “Good,” he says, and that’s not a lie.  It does feel good, if not a little overwhelming and new.  “You?”

“Eh,” Sam says.  He smiles, but it’s a little worried.  “Doing okay with it.  Hell of a duty.  And a hell of a big pair of shoes to fill.”

Bucky glances at Steve where he’s working in the kitchen.  “Yeah.”

“I got it under control, though,” Sam assures, leaning back in Steve’s chair in Steve’s office at the Avengers complex.  Bucky recognizes it well enough.  Sam hasn’t redecorated at all.  “So you don’t have to worry.”

“You know he will,” Bucky says softly.

Sam gives a huge grin, all bright, white teeth.  “I know.  But try to keep him focused on what really matters, alright?”

Bucky smiles faintly.  “You mean me.”

“I do mean you.”  Sam holds Bucky’s gaze.  “Stop thinking so much about it all and just enjoy it, you know?  It’s not like you and Steve haven’t earned it.”  That’s almost said like a challenge, like he’s provoking Bucky into arguing he _hasn’t_ earned it just so Sam can argue just how much he has.

Bucky’s not rising to the bait.  He’s feeling better about this already.  “Yeah, I think so.”

Sam nods, pleased with that.  “Good.  Don’t be a stranger, huh?”

Like Steve will let that happen.  “Nope.  Later, Wilson.”

“Bye, Barnes.”

They hang up.  Steve’s got pasta boiling and steak cooking.  It smells delicious.  Bucky watches him work in the kitchen, fiddling with the idle phone between his metal fingers, feeling increasingly settled.  After a few minutes of watching, he gets up from the breakfast bar and goes over to the counter beside him.  “Can I help?”

Steve’s cutting up some peppers and cucumbers for their salad.  The knife is winking in the light as he works fast, capable fingers making short work of preparing the vegetables.  He looks over at Bucky, smiles, flips the chef’s knife agilely, and hands it to Bucky hilt first without a moment of hesitation.

Bucky hesitates, though.  It’s not the first time he’s handled a potential weapon since his recovery, but this is the first time someone’s _handed_ him one like this so casually.  And surely Steve realizes that, recognizes it and is yet again doing it purposefully.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up into a smile, and he takes the blade and gets to cutting.

They work side by side for a bit.  Steve’s humming an old one, “Memories of You”.  Bucky can almost hear the old radio in their kitchen, the languid horns and Louis Armstrong’s unmistakable voice filling the small space as they cooked with whatever they had.  Now they have everything they could ever want, _anything_ they could ask for, and Steve’s literally twice the man he was, but this…  This feels like home.

A little while after that, they’re sitting at the dinette table.  Steve’s got two massive porterhouse steaks right off the grill, seasoned and steaming.  The salad is in a wooden bowl, practically overflowing (they’d laughed about that, Bucky telling Steve it was too much and Steve determined to make the vessel work as he stuffed more and more lettuce and fixings inside).  There’s also some sort of pasta with white wine sauce that Steve whipped up and that smells delicious.  Most people don’t realize it, but Steve’s a pretty good cook.  Sarah Rogers was always able to craft something fabulous with hardly anything at all, and Steve’s picked that up from her.  The meal is absolutely scrumptious, and it’s gone before Bucky’s ready for it to be.

After they’re through with the dishes, the sun’s going down.  Bucky puts his coat back on and heads out onto the porch to watch the lake.  The evening is quiet, a little chilly, and the lake is like glass.  The sky is a soft gray like goose down.  He stands at the railing for a long time, watching dusk fall over the world.  The silence feels good.  Very pleasant and serene.  Just a couple months ago, this seemed unobtainable.  The quiet usually let too much misery out of his head, but here and now?

Here and now, this is wonderful.

Perfect.

“Hey.”

Steve’s call from the doors has Bucky turning.  He’s there, a blanket in one hand and two wineglasses and a wine bottle in the other.  “Want a drink?”  He comes closer, joining Bucky where he’s leaning against the large post of the deck overhead.  Steve lifts the bottle.  Inside is a red, a cab sav if the label is any indication.  “Tony left this as a house-warming present.  This and its dozens of buddies in the wine cellar.”

“We have a wine cellar?” Bucky asks, flummoxed.

“Apparently,” Steve says with a shrug.  “A huge one down in the basement.”  He looks at the bottle.  “I picked this one out because it’s old.”

Bucky laughs, taking the blanket.  “Nice, Stevie.”

“Like you know anything about wine,” Steve chides as they walk to the chaise lounges on the patio.  Bucky has to concede that he doesn’t.  Not like they ever had the money to drink it when they were younger.  Once or twice during the war they found some in France or Italy, but it wasn’t like they ever drank it in a proper setting or learned to discern the taste.  Usually the bottle was just passed around the campfire.  “Let’s crack this sucker open.”

Bucky sits on the lounger, sniffling in the increasingly cold air, as Steve gets the cork out of the bottle.  Then Bucky holds the glasses so Steve can pour the wine in.  Steve sets the bottle to the glass end table between the lounges.  They both lay back, one on each lounge.  It’s quiet for a bit.  Bucky’s got the blanket, but he just sets it down by his feet and drinks his wine.  He knows it won’t have any effect on him (or Steve), but it tastes good, tart and strong and a little fruity, and it burns a little in his throat.  “You picked a winner.”

“Did I?” Steve asks.  His glass is already empty.

Bucky looks over at him.  It’s gotten really dark now, just the last vestiges of sunlight clinging to the patio.  Steve’s eyes are so bright in the shadows.  God, he’s beautiful.  “Yeah,” Bucky says, more than a little entranced.  “Yeah.”

Steve grins, staring right back.  Then he’s setting his glass on the table, and he’s rolling out of his chaise.  He scoots across the couple of feet between them on his knees before climbing up into Bucky’s lounger.  “Aw, Steve…  You ain’t little now.  Not gonna fit.”

“Sure, we will,” Steve breathes, and he’s sliding between Bucky’s legs, pulling the quilt with him.  “Always did back during the war.  Besides, I only brought one of these for this very reason.”

Bucky smiles, humming his appreciation, and Steve settles down on Bucky, drawing the blanket over them both.  It’s comfortable enough, though it is a tight fit with two super soldiers.  Steve tips his head up for a kiss, and Bucky meets him halfway.  It tastes like wine.  They kiss and kiss, warm and contented.  “I could get used to this,” Bucky murmurs when Steve finally pulls away.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, staring at Bucky like he’s the moon and the stars, like he’s _everything._   The only thing he needs.  The only thing that matters.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, running his fingers through Steve’s hair.  The metal digits don’t register the silky softness of the blond locks, but he can remember what it feels like, what it _was_ like holding Steve’s little body like this back on their old, ratty couch in their apartment.  From there to here…   _Wow._   “Happy retirement, Steve.”

Steve chuckles, nuzzling into Bucky’s chest.  “Happy retirement.”

* * *

_Three weeks later_

Retirement _is_ a little boring, as it turns out.

Not that Bucky’s complaining.  He’s definitely not.  This is the happiest he’s been in years, maybe ever.  He’s free of HYDRA, free of the past.  They have plenty of food, plenty of _everything_ , more than he could ever imagine having.  They’re safe, both of them, and Steve’s whole and healthy.  That’s such a _thing_ that he doesn’t even realize it until they settle into their new place.  God, he’s never had a moment to slow down and really appreciate that Steve’s _okay._   When they were back at the complex, he was completely consumed by his own issues and the inquiries into the Winter Soldier to think about it, and so many of his memories were so jumbled and uncertain that he didn’t realize the enormity of what was happening.  And during the war, of course, there was no time at all to appreciate much of anything at all.  Now…  Steve’s not sick, not bent by his bad back or wheezing with his shit lungs or struggling with his anemia or any one of his ailments.  Bucky doesn’t have to worry for the first time in forever.

 _And_ he has Steve all to himself.  He’s understanding more and more that that’s also a big deal for both of them.  No need to slink around or hide their relationship.  No need to fear discovery, to long for something they can’t have.  They have it.  Bucky remembers holding Steve late at night in their bedroom, their cots pressed together in some poor man’s attempt at a double bed, whispering about what it’d be like to be free to love each other.  Plus there were the times during the war, the few times they stole a moment or two to hold each other in their bedrolls, dreaming about safety, about being together where there’s nothing to hurt them…  They’re there.  _This_ is that place.  It’s so damn amazing that it still takes Bucky’s breath away, even weeks after the move.

But it is taking some getting used to for both of them.  This is the first time Steve’s stopped fighting and leading and _working_ in forever.  Bucky can tell he misses it a little.  He’s hiding it well, but Bucky notices.  This isn’t to say he’s depressed or miserable or anything like it.  He’s been really happy, cheery, and airy.  He wasted no time at all in turning that spare room into an art studio, and he’s been sketching and painting and basically going to town with his talent in a way he never could as a kid.  Bucky even convinced him to buy one of those fancy digital art tablets and a really nice computer (Steve didn’t involve Tony in that one, even though he felt a little guilty about excluding him.  He just didn’t think he needed the fanciest money could buy with more bells and whistles than he could ever figure out, and he definitely didn’t need JARVIS critiquing his work as he went).  With the glut of supplies, Steve was constantly working on something.  It took no time at all for him to fill numerous sketchbooks, cover the walls of the art room in paintings and colored pencil works that show scenes from their youths and faces they loved and new family left behind in New York.  He was being utterly prolific.

Which makes Bucky feel all the more worthless.  He can’t draw, never has been able to, and can’t do much else.  He’s still taking tentative steps in figuring out who he is in the wake of the Winter Soldier.  He’s not the same charming, strapping young man from their youth who had everyone fawning over his good looks and stellar grades and bright future.  He’s not the mindless killing machine, either.  He’s someone else, someone new, and he’s not sure who that is yet.  His therapist back at the complex (and Sam and Steve and basically everyone who cares about him) suggested he find a hobby, but that seemingly mundane task feels like a monumentally impossible goal.  He doesn’t feel brave or _real_ enough (if that’s a thing) to be engaged in something like that.  Steve is sweetly supportive, of course, but beyond being with Steve and being here, Bucky’s not sure what makes him happy right now.  He’s working on it.  Steve assures him they have all the time in the world.

And they do.  They have time for Bucky to read new things (which he’s been doing as he feels like it, but the culture shock inherent in a lot of books feels very sharp).  They have time to go running every morning (which they do, for miles, and it feels so good. _So good_ ).  They have time to hike and enjoy the beautiful landscape around them.  They have time to take the little boat they found in the small boathouse down the shore a little bit out onto the lake and float around aimlessly.  They have time to fish (which is just what Steve said: extremely boring.  And they don’t catch a thing).  They have time to do _nothing_ , to talk the way they used to, to breathe in the silence together, to simply feel and be.  They have time to figure things out, to experiment, to define themselves in this post-Captain America and Winter Soldier world.  Maybe it’s not always easy for either of them to make sense of the simple life, but they’re learning.

Little by little, Bucky feels like he can accept himself like this.  Maybe he’s not who he was.  He’s not James Buchanan Barnes, the one who loved Steve Rogers in secret from the first day they both knew what love was.  He’s not the Winter Soldier; those dark, damning days are behind him.  He’s Bucky now, a new man navigating a new life.  It’s not always easy or natural, but away from the attention and constant reminders of the Avengers complex, it seems attainable.  Kissing Steve is easy.  Holding Steve is easy.  Touching Steve and letting Steve touch him is easier and easier.  They’ll get there.  They’re trying.

Bucky chooses to try baking of all things.  It’s a spontaneous decision on a Tuesday towards the end of October.  Steve’s been cooking for them constantly, and it’s been making Bucky feel even more useless and selfish.  In fact, Steve’s been doing a lot of everything: cleaning up, doing the laundry, handling the meals and the dishes and whatever else needs attention.  He doesn’t make a big deal about it, but Bucky knows it’s another one of the things Steve is doing to make life easier on Bucky.  He’s still handling Bucky with kid gloves just a bit.  Bucky doesn’t begrudge him that.  This is part of them figuring it out, too.  Plus Steve always used to tend to the domestic work back in Brooklyn, so this is a familiar role for him.  _Plus_ Bucky’s sure it’s a way for him to feel busy.  Steve’s struggling with that most of all, the _not_ doing things part of retirement.  Keeping their ridiculously oversized house perfectly clean is a way to counteract that.  So is keeping two super soldiers well-fed.

At any rate, Bucky declares one morning over a massive stack of pancakes that he wants to try baking.  Steve makes decent pancakes, but they’re plain, and he never feels brave enough to mess with the recipe.  It’ll be cool to have the confidence to try changing it up (or to make loads of tasty desserts – they’ve suffered enough in their lives that Bucky figures they deserve to eat brownies and eclairs and cookies and whatever the hell confectionary they want whenever they want every day henceforth).  On top of that, Bucky’s been binge-watching some sort of British baking competition on Netflix that’s silly and fun and light, and it basically makes baking look awesome.  So he tells Steve he wants to attempt it, bringing up some recipes for puff pastry and tarts and different bread doughs on his phone, and Steve grins like a loon, gifts him with a loving kiss, and off they drive to town.

Lodin, Vermont is a half hour down the hills and through the woods.  It’s a quiet, quaint little place with only a few thousand citizens that’s on the outskirts of Killington.  With a rustic, artsy feel to it, it’s just the sort of environment Bucky wants.  No one thinks twice about the two of them, though they’re not openly affectionate toward each other in public.  Part of that is old habits dying hard, and part of that is due to the warning that old guy gave them when they moved in.  Regardless, not one of the people in town recognizes them, and Bucky likes the anonymity.

They’re there now, walking through the grocery store and loading the cart with food for the week.  Steve’s got a list he’s managing on his phone, and he’s meticulously (and a little obsessively) analyzing each item to make sure it’s both what he wants and the best price available.  That, too, is a hold-out from their youth, the austere years where they had to stretch every penny.  Bucky, on the other hand, is throwing whatever he wants into the basket, whatever he feels like trying.  Vaguely he knows he must have eaten modern food as the Winter Soldier.  He _had_ to have eaten during his time under HYDRA’s control, but it’s not like he can remember any of it (or he was allowed any choice or preference).  Now he’s indiscriminately trying everything, and he’s not being picky about what ingredients he wants to use for his baking.  Steve’s not saying a thing as he takes two or three or more different types of flour and sugar and all sorts of other ingredients and adds them to their heap of groceries.  In fact, Steve just stands there, leaning onto the handle of the cart, grinning lopsidedly.  “You do realize we don’t actually need to buy the kitchen sink, right.  I mean, the one we got isn’t all that bad.”

Bucky gives him a withering look, which makes Steve grin even wider.  “I already told you.  I’ve got no idea what the hell I’m doing, so I need to cover my bases.”

“And make our house look like a bakery.”  Bucky rolls his eyes.  “What?”

“‘Find a hobby, Buck,’” Bucky says in a whiny voice.  “‘You need something to do, Buck.  Keep yourself busy, Buck.’”

“Yeah, I said it just like that,” Steve retorts.  He looks ridiculously good today in loose-fitting jeans and a Navy blue Henley with a gray hoodie over that and his leather jacket as another layer.  Easy and casual, with more than a little bit of stubble coating his jaw.  Bucky has very quickly come to appreciate his retirement attire.  “As far as I’m concerned, I am totally behind _this_ being your hobby.”

“Sure, you are.”  Bucky puts a jar of molasses in the cart.  “You just want the proceeds from all my effort.”

“Not denying that.”

“Can Captain America get chubby from eating too many sweets?” Bucky teases.

Steve shrugs.  In truth, it’s probably not possible, not with the serum helping him maintain the physique of utter physical perfection (the way Steve exercises notwithstanding).  “Wouldn’t mind findin’ out if you’re feedin’ me,” he says with another huge grin.

“You do realize you’re my guinea pig, too.”

“Don’t mind that, either.”

Bucky laughs, coming around to the front of the cart to set some fancy seasonings into the top basket.  “You say that now.  Wait until we’re dozens of burned cookies into this adventure.”

Now Steve laughs too, and Bucky can’t help himself.  That overwhelming sense of being _happy_ bursts over him.  It used to be so strange, but over the last few weeks, it’s become a welcomed guest who’s staying longer and longer and coming back more frequently for visits.  It drives him now, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s kissing Steve, kissing him hard, _kissing him in public._

Maybe Steve stiffens for a second, but it doesn’t last for more than that.  He follows Bucky’s lead, lets Bucky deepen the kiss, and Bucky does.  That good feeling explodes, like there’s warmth in his chest and it’s spreading outward in a tingly bolt to the very tips of his fingers and toes.  It’s love and pride and contentment and joy and peace and purpose and _everything_ wonderful he feels and everything right he knows.  He doesn’t care if anyone sees.  Let them.  And let them figure out the Winter Soldier is sucking face with Captain America in the baking aisle of this tiny supermarket in the middle of this no-name town.  He’s not afraid for the world to know that he loves Steve.

Apparently no one knows though because when he finally pulls away for air, they’re still alone in the aisle.  Steve’s got an adorably dopey grin on his kiss-swollen lips.  “What’d I do to deserve that?” he asks.

Bucky pulls the cart away, feeling lighter than air as he strolls down the aisle.  “Nothing,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder.  He smiles, and Steve smiles back before jumping to catch up.

They finish up and check out.  The girl running the register doesn’t comment on them at all, scanning their groceries as she makes small talk with Steve.  Bucky is looking at the tabloids lining the racks around the checkout aisle.  It’s the same crap, the same stupid stories that never seem to get old.  Stark’s on the cover of one of them.  Again.  This time it’s about some rumors of him being controlled by aliens?  And there’s always a story about the Winter Soldier.  It’s probably full of the latest incendiary rumors the media is trying to spread in order to sell papers and ad space.  Bucky doesn’t even look beyond the blurry picture of him with a rifle that was probably pulled from some old HYDRA footage.  He doesn’t need to see that shit.

So he focuses on the really outlandish publications, and given the proximity to Halloween, there’s no shortage of utter nonsense.  One in particular, _The Country Enquirer_ , has a cover story about a paranormal sighting in an old house in a town closer to Killington.  Steve’s conversation with the cashier fades into the background while Bucky picks up the magazine and flips to the story.  The reporter trailed some self-proclaimed “ghost hunters” as they investigated the supposed haunting.  Back during the Civil War era, the family that lived in this location had two sons die fighting for the Union.  A third came back, though no longer in his right mind.  He ended up shooting his entire family and then himself.  Ever since then, people in the house and the lands around it have claimed to experience weird disturbances.   That’s according to the article, anyway.  It’s really a gruesome story, complete with pictures of the long-dead people and images of the ghost hunters bravely staying overnight in this old, spooky house.  It’s all bullshit, too, but, again, it sells magazines.

“Ready?”

Steve’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he’s sliding the tabloid back in the rack.  Steve’s already done paying for their groceries, and he’s got the cart, which is now full of bags.  “Yep,” Bucky says.

They head back out into the crisp, autumn air.  It’s a cloudy day, a little drizzly, damp, and morose.  Bucky pops a mint from his pocket into his mouth as they amble slowly to their SUV.  For being a small place, Lodin’s got a lot of charm and attractiveness and a ridiculous number of bed and breakfasts.  Therefore, quite a few tourists frequent the little main drag here, at the fancy coffee places and restaurants and artsy shops loaded with jewelry, crafts, and clothes.  Their expensive car doesn’t stick out quite so much surrounded by other expensive cars from the city folk who come here for a long weekend, which is just as well.  More cover and more anonymity.

Frankly, though, as they start loading groceries into the back of the car, Bucky’s still feeling high off the thrill of kissing Steve like that.  All their relationship he’s felt like they’ve needed to hide, and lately he’s been feeling unworthy, and now?  Now he just feels _good_.  Like Devil may care if world sees how much he loves Steve and Steve loves him.  He’s worthy of feeling love, of _being_ loved.  He’s reformed and strong and affectionate, and he has a right to show that, just like anyone else.

“You want some coffee?” Steve asks as he puts the bag with the bread in the back seat of the car.  He leans back up and meets Bucky’s gaze.  “Was thinking about getting some.”

“You and your pumpkin spice everything,” Bucky jokes.  “And you and your scones.”

“What?” Steve asks, acting affronted.  “Those scones are like perfection in sugar and butter.”

“How in the world am I gonna compete with that?” Bucky moans, and Steve laughs.  “Yeah, I’ll have one of those pumpkin things, too.  Hot.  Extra foam.”

This time it’s Steve who takes the kiss, and this is even more in public, and for all his bravado earlier, Bucky doesn’t feel ready for it.  But it’s Steve, and Steve is sure and good and pure and perfect, and no one can fault him for loving that.  _No one._   Doesn’t matter who he was or who he is or what he’s done.  He’s worthy of it.

Steve pulls away.  His lips were so warm in the cold, damp air.  He puts his old Dodgers cap on.  “Be right back.”  Then he’s heading across the street to the coffeeshop.

Bucky stares a moment before looking around.  His senses are as sharp as ever despite being months and months removed from his tenure as an assassin.  There’s the sidewalk across the street, and in front of the coffeeshop and storefronts there are people everywhere, walking and talking and shopping and eating despite the cold, wet day.  A few cars go by, sending damp, fallen leaves fluttering as they do.  Bucky doesn’t see _anyone_ looking.  And why should they?  Why should they care?  No one cares.  He exhales a long sigh as he realizes that, and he’s about to walk over to the passenger side of the Range Rover to get in.

Then a car passes on the road, and he glances up subconsciously.  When it’s gone, there’s the old guy – _John_ – who came by the house that first day.  He’s staring at Bucky again with those sharp, narrowed eyes that seem a little familiar.  It’s the same judgmental glare.

With him, though…  There’s a young woman.  She can’t be older than Wanda.  She’s dressed in a white nightdress, one doesn’t really fit in with styles of today.  Bucky doesn’t think it does anyway, but it’s not like he’s a fashion guru.  The dress is long, down to her ankles, and it has long sleeves.  Her hair doesn’t seem right, either.  It’s dark brown, and she’s got a pretty thick fringe.  On her shoulders it curls upward just a bit, but otherwise it’s very straight.  Her face is long, very pale, waiflike.  She’s plain but pretty, or she would be if not for her pallor and the off-putting, intense brightness of her blue eyes.  Aside from the way she looks being off, she’s wet.  Her nightgown is clinging so tightly to her skin he can practically see through it to her curves beneath.  That’s very strange, considering it’s not _that_ rainy (and they’re out in public for crying out loud).

But stranger still?  He’s… _certain_ he’s seen her before.  At least he thinks he has.  The old man has this weird sense to him, this odd hint of familiarity, but with her, it’s much stronger, much more defined.

He doesn’t know who or when or what or why, but he _knows_ her.  He knows her face, knows her body, knows her eyes, _knows her._

And… God, he knows he killed her.

Ice settles in his chest, and he can’t breathe for what feels like forever, like time is being stretched infinitely long with this horrific realization.  There’s no context to this knowledge, no evidence to support it, no memories that immediately spring to the surface like sometimes happens when he makes a sudden connection like this to the dark parts of his past.  There’s _none_ of that, just the feeling that he knows her, that he hurt her, that he _murdered_ her.

But before he can even really process that, another car whooshes by, blocking his view for a split second, and when it’s gone, so is she.  The old man is still there, alone, and he’s walking.  It’s as if he was never staring at Bucky in the first place.  It’s as if the girl was never there _at all._   Bucky can’t make any sense of that.  Was it even real?  Sometimes his brain just _feeds_ him things, moments and sensations and hints of events, that don’t make sense.  Wanda tells him it’s his mind healing, and as it does, damaged and disjointed memories coming out of the darkness inside.  Maybe this is that.  It wouldn’t be the first time his broken brain and PTSD have gotten the better of him.

Still, he’s running across the grocery store’s parking lot and into street before he even thinks to move.  He’s so consumed in it – _where did she go who was she why_ – that he doesn’t notice the car coming at him.  The driver slams on the brakes with a loud screech, and the front bumper bangs into Bucky’s left leg.  For anyone else, it’d be a serious injury.  For a super soldier, it just slows him down, and he’s too frantic and confused to do anything more than wave the irritated driver on.

The delay does its damage, though.  By the time he reaches the opposite sidewalk, the old man is gone, too.  “What the hell,” he whispers.  People are staring at him now, and someone asks him if he’s okay.  He doesn’t answer.  The touch of a compassionate hand to his shoulder shocks him – _no one_ touches him other than Steve these days – and he’s jolting away like he’s been burned, stumbling down the sidewalk along the storefronts.  Frantically he scans the people around him, but there’s no sign of him _or_ of her.   The world moves in a blur, but he stands there, breathing heavily, reeling and lost and wondering: _I couldn’t have imagined that._

_Could I?_

“Buck?”

Bucky whirls and nearly plows right into Steve.  He’s got two coffees with lids and cardboard cup holders and a white paper bag that probably has his scones.  The second he sees Bucky, his eyes darken in worry.  He frowns.  “You okay?”

Bucky can feel himself shaking.  It takes him a second to get his brain working enough to speak.  “Yeah!  Yeah, ’m okay.”

That frown deepens and furrows Steve’s brow.  “You don’t look it.  What happened?”

Before he thinks better of it, Bucky’s turning and looking down the street again.  Everyone’s stopped staring, though there are a few wayward glances here and there.  John and the mysterious girl with him are definitely gone.  Of course they would be, because the girl _can’t_ be real, and if John was there at all, he was has long since walked away.  Still…  “I…  I thought I saw…”

Steve touches his shoulder.  “Saw who?”

“John.”  Steve seems like he doesn’t understand for a second.  “John What’s-his-face.  He never said his last name.”

For a moment Steve considers that.  “The guy from when we first got here?”

“Yeah, I…”  Bucky doesn’t finish.  He can’t tell Steve about the girl.  First of all, she’s dead.  He _knows_ that.  But he can’t explain how he knows it.  He can’t figure out what made him see her.  He can’t explain a damn thing.

And more than that…  This is a sin from his past.  _He_ killed her.  How can he possibly admit that?

So he just sighs.  “It’s nothing.  He’s gone.”

Now Steve’s concern gets even more pronounced.  Then he shakes his head.  “Was he giving you the stink eye again?  He probably saw us kissin’.”

Maybe that’s it.  “Yeah.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Bucky’s getting better and better at faking it, so much so that he can actually smile.  He turns around and does that and takes his coffee.  “Yep.  Now gimme a scone.”

* * *

That night it starts to rain harder.  That effectively causes them to cancel the plans they made that morning to go hiking in the afternoon, which results in Steve making dinner earlier than planned.  What is it about old, retired people and eating supper at four o’clock?  They joke about that over a hearty soup Steve simmered all afternoon and the cheese bread they bought from the bakery.  Of course, two old men slurping up soup so early in the day is even more apropos.  It’s almost embarrassing, and they promise each other to never tell another soul (especially not Tony or Sam.  God, they’ll never hear the end of it).

After they’re done and the dishes are clean, they both putter around the house somewhat aimlessly before settling in the massive entertainment room.  Steve sits on the couch with Bucky’s head in his lap, and Bucky’s watching more baking on the stupidly large and hi-tech television Tony installed.  To the side, the windows show a wet evening, heavy droplets of rain falling with a seeming lethargy to them.  The lake is blurred by it, and it’s dark with approaching twilight.  Bucky can make out the dock heading out into the gray water, though.  He’s watching it more than the TV, drifting in his thoughts somewhat uselessly.

Steve’s not really paying attention to the show.  He’s halfway through a Jane Austen novel.  He’s been reading like mad the last few weeks, and with how fast he can plow through things with the serum, they’re going to need to rent out the public library.  His fingers have been working through Bucky’s hair where Bucky’s head his pillowed on his thigh.  It’s a simple, calming gesture, and it’s almost lulling Bucky to sleep. 

Almost.  He’s still feeling a little unnerved by what happened earlier that day.  And Steve can tell, of course, even if neither of them has mentioned it once since.  “You okay?” he softly asks, stilling his hand a little and glancing down from his book.

Bucky shakes himself free of his thoughts, looking away from the window and up at Steve.  “Yeah.”

Steve lowers the paperback, shifting his lap a bit to sink deeper into the overly plush sectional.  “Somethin’ botherin’ you?

“Nah,” Bucky says.  He turns a little to kiss Steve’s belly.  “Nah, I’m good.”

“Seems like you’re wool-gathering.”

“I can gather some wool, you know.”  That comes out maybe a little irritated.  Maybe.  He’s not mad, though.  He’s just tired of Steve leaping at every sigh or moment of hesitation or doubt.  God knows it’s warranted after the rough road they walked to get here, but it’s rubbing him wrong more and more.  All day since the incident (if you can even call it that) on the street, Steve’s been a little extra cautious with him, a little more observant and concerned.  The goddamn role reversal again.

Like now, with Steve’s doubtful frown once again getting more pronounced.  “Just don’t want you worrying about things.”

“The only things I have to worry about is my pastry falling flat or burning my bread.”

“You haven’t started baking yet,” Steve reminds gently, and it’s true.  Bucky put all his ingredients and supplies away when they got back, but his plans he spouted that morning on the way to the store to try to make something ended up being just talk.  Sometimes that happens with depression and his other issues, that his motivation suddenly deserts him.

Bucky sighs and turns back to the TV, resolving to put this bullshit out of his head if only to get Steve to let it go.  “Look, you don’t want me worry about things?  I don’t want you to worry about me.  So stop.  I got a little freaked out this morning.  It’s fine.  Not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last, so…”

He doesn’t finish.  Out of the corner of his eye there’s a hint of white, just barely a wink of it, and he’s leaning up and staring outside.  He saw it down by the water, a flutter of pale cloth.  Dark hair.  Gray skin.  It’s gone when he checks more intently, gone like it was never there at all.  _What the fuck…_

“Bucky?” Steve asks, and now the concern in his voice is so strong it’s almost a tangible thing between them, prodding at Bucky and demanding his attention.  It’s hard – so damn hard because he _knows_ he saw something white like her dress and dark like her hair and gray like her _dead skin_ – but eventually he drags his gaze back to Steve.

Worried is no longer an adequate description for how Steve looks.  And freaked out is not quite enough to describe how Bucky feels.  This just can’t be.  She was there.  He saw her again, down on the dock, walking closer to the shore…  But there’s no one on the dock now, though everything is smeared and blurred by the water.  How can that be?

“Buck, come on.”  Steve touches his shoulder and tugs insistently back.  “What is it?”

Bucky’s so desperate to make sense of it all that he’s tempted to ask Steve if he saw anything outside.  He doesn’t, though.  How does he even begin to?  _You spot that woman down by the lake?  The one I’m pretty sure I murdered somehow someway somewhere in the last seventy years?_

_Am I fucking crazy?_

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses quickly, forcing himself to focus.  God, his fucking brain…  Sometimes he wishes he could just wipe away this mess he is now and start over.  Go back in the chair.  Clean slate, ready for programming.  “Nothing.  I’m just tired, I guess.”

The dubious look in Steve’s eyes speaks volumes about just how little he believes that excuse.  He doesn’t question more, though.  Thank God.  And it’s not like it’s not true.  Physically, he’s fine.  He’s a goddamn super soldier; he doesn’t get tired.  But emotionally?  He feels a little worn thin, which is just fucking pathetic.  One hint of a flashback or whatever the fuck this is and he’s all out of sorts.

Eventually Steve accepts the explanation.  “Well, we can just go to bed.  It’s not like there’s much to do with the weather like this.  Kind of a sleepy, miserable evening.”

It is, but Bucky’s too irritated to roll over for it and show his belly.  This crap his brain is pulling doesn’t deserve his surrender.  “No, I don’t want to yet.  It’s only, what?  Six o’clock?”

“Little after, yeah.”

“We’re not that fucking old,” Bucky grumbles, laying back down and cuddling into Steve’s stomach.  He grabs Steve’s free hand with his metal one and puts it back onto his head.  “Keep going,” he orders, and he can feel Steve chuckle despite the hints of tension.  He follows the command, though, threading his fingers through the thick locks of Bucky’s hair, scritching and scratching a little at his scalp as he does.  “That’s the stuff.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Steve comments, lifting his book again.

“So you’ve been telling me for forever, only you used to call it charming.”  Steve laughs more openly this time, and the last of his stiffness bleeds out of him.  Bucky melts a little more, contented again.  “I think I used to do this to you, too.”

“On occasion.”

Bucky stretches, trying to be languid and graceful like a cat.  It feels forced to him.  “I recall you liking it.”

“Yeah.”

 _Back when I took care of you instead of the other way around.  Back when you weren’t scared of me touching you.  Back when I wasn’t scared of touching you._   Well, Bucky has always been frightened of that, truthfully.  When Steve was so little and frail, all fragile bones with hardly any fat on his body to protect them, Bucky was always afraid of inadvertently causing him pain, particularly when they’d be intimate.  And Steve hated it.  How many times did he snap at Bucky, _“I’m not gonna break, Buck!”_   Or, _“I can take it, Bucky, so move or so help me, God.”_   Or, _“I can fight my own battles, Bucky.  I don’t need you looking out for me.”_   How quickly Steve seems to have forgotten what it feels like to be treated as vulnerable and weak, like you’re made of glass.

Bucky doesn’t say any of that though, because it’s not fair.  And that was before the Winter Soldier pumped three bullets into Steve’s body.

He shuts up his brain and turns back to the TV. It’s almost the part of the show where the judges render their verdicts on the bakers’ creations and send someone home.  Bucky wasn’t following along too carefully, so he has no idea who has made what or who’s in trouble and who’s safe.  He tries to get back into it now, but it’s hard.  His brain doesn’t want to focus.  He feels addled and disconnected and, well, grumpy.

Eventually Steve gets up to use the facilities and leaves Bucky laying on the couch.  He sinks into the warm spot where Steve was, sighing heavily and trying to work himself out of his increasingly foul mood.  On the television one of the contestants is in joyous tears because her cake won the competition.  Normally these moments (as silly as they are) never fail to make Bucky feel good.  Battle-hardened, brutalized, and battered as he is, this sort of inane stuff lightens his heart.

Not now, though.  He doesn’t know why he’s so wound up.  Restless energy is making his skin crawl, and it’s hard to ignore it.  He feels like he should be doing something other than just lazing, loafing, watching baking like some fucking useless drone and letting Steve take care of him.  He hasn’t earned this.  He doesn’t deserve it.  He’s the Winter Soldier, and he deserves to be in jail for what he did.  Or dead.

 _No._   He can’t think like that.  Ellis exonerated him.  The public excused him.  The Avengers embraced him.  And Steve loves him.  There’s nothing wrong at all with taking it easy and enjoying this simple life. _There’s nothing wrong with me._

So he releases the breath he was holding and decides not to think about any of it anymore.

But then thunder rumbles.  It’s low, sharp and sudden, and Bucky opens eyes he’s let slip shut.  The show’s still on the same scene, so it can’t have been more than a couple seconds he checked out.  Steve’s still not back, though.  It doesn’t matter.  Maybe throwing the towel in on today’s not a bad idea.

He’s about to sit up and reach for the remote to shut everything off when lightning flashes.  Something moves out of the corner of his eye again, and he twists around and almost screams.

_She’s right there._

Right outside the fucking _window_ and standing in the rain _._   The girl.  She’s up against the glass, with hardly anything more than an inch between the pane and her body.  Water runs down her and puddles beneath in the grass.  Her nightgown and hair are soaked in the rain, plastered to her skin.  He can see everything, the curves of her hips and breasts, the lines of her legs, even the top band of her underwear.  Her expression is blank, eyes unseeing, mouth parted, face lax and waxy with death. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky whimpers, scrambling up from the couch.  His heart’s pounding a mile a minute, a deafening whoosh in his ears, as he backpedals and staggers away.  It may be his flailing or the noise of his leg banging into the coffee table, but whatever it is, her dull, empty eyes blink and suddenly focus on him.  Her expression seizes into a scowl, and suddenly there’s blood.  Her white nightgown darkens with it over her left shoulder.  Her right thigh.  Her stomach.  All over her chest.  She’s staring at him with nothing but _hate_ in her eyes, and the blood’s pouring out, running down her arms and legs, turning the puddle of rain crimson.  In a matter of a second, there’s no white left on her, her entire nightgown saturated with red.

It’s horrifying.  He just stares.  She stares back.  Then she raises her arms, opens her mouth, screams, and the glass shatters, and the blood’s spraying from her hands in a flood, pushing inside the living room, and Bucky screams too and–

“What’s going on?”

Bucky jerks out of it.  Icy terror rakes over him, and he gasps, ripping around to find Steve standing at the few steps that lead down into the recessed entertainment room.  Confused beyond the pale, Bucky turns back to find the window intact and no blood at all.  Thunder rumbles again, and the rain falls heavily.  She’s gone.

_She’s gone._

“Bucky?”

Bucky can’t even begin to _think._   He feels sick, the rush of adrenaline making the room spin and his stomach clench.  His heart’s still pounding so hard _it hurts._   He glances between Steve and the window, which is just as it should be, though that _can’t_ be given what just happened and _what the hell she was there I know she was I know–_ “Did you see…”

Steve grimaces.  Bucky can feel himself trembling, can feel sweat prickling under his shirt, can imagine how terrified he must look.  And it’s a fucking stupid question, because it’s obvious Steve didn’t see anything.  It’s obvious _nothing happened._

“Did I see what?” Steve asks, reaching out a hand.  “Jesus, you’re shaking.”

Bucky jerks away before Steve can touch him.  The thought of _anyone_ touching him right now…  “I’m okay.”

Hurt splays over Steve’s features.  “Buck?”

 _Get your goddamn shit together._   Bucky manages to haul in a shaking breath.  _It’s not real.  Not real at all.  Your fucking brain is torturing you.  Something’s trying to come out of the darkness._   That’s a good way to think about it.  The shadowy parts of his soul where his memories are still unclear and tainted by HYDRA, where Wanda can’t reach and his therapist can’t help, the things even _he_ can’t access…  _Something’s coming out of the darkness._

“Bucky, God, talk to me here.”

The naked pain in Steve’s voice has him pulling himself up by his bootstraps.  He smiles, eases away from the hazy panic still coursing through him.  “You know, maybe you’re right.  Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

Only he can’t sleep.  It’s still raining, and the heavy patter of it against the turret’s roof would normally be soothing.  It’s not.  It’s a heavy rain, and he can see it in his mind’s eye.  Rain mixed with blood, turning into blood, and she’s glaring and screaming and _condemning him_.

_Christ, what did I do to her?_

He lays on his back, hands folded across his belly, and breathes.  Tries not to think.  Definitely tries not to look outside the huge bank of windows but fails and glances that way over and over again.  It’s black as hell now, with the moon and stars obscured behind the thick clouds.  Occasionally there’s a wink of lightning, and that’s the worst.  It glitters off the lake, makes trees into monsters, turns the now familiar shadows of their bedroom into grotesque threats.  Bucky’s stiff with terror, but he can’t shake it, can’t break free of it.

_What did I do?_

Steve’s beside him, curled onto his side.  Normally they sleep like a giant octopus, legs and arms tangled together, his face buried into Steve’s back or Steve curled around his hip like he used to back in Brooklyn.  Normally they’re comfortable and affectionate and wrapped up into each other, physically and emotionally.  Now there’s a foot of empty sheets and rumpled duvet between them.  It’s awkward, painfully so, and Bucky doesn’t know what’s hurting him more: the fear that he’ll look outside only to see the girl, or the guilt for how he’s treating Steve right now, Steve who is most definitely _not_ sleeping even though he, too, is completely still.  Steve who is probably scared out of his mind.

Steve who just wants to help him.

_Not sure I deserve it._

The silence is oppressive, thick and heavy and almost suffocating.  Bucky’s caught between wanting a noise, something, _anything,_ to break it just for the sake of breaking it and being frightened of hearing so much as an out of place creak.  God, he’s been through hell.  He’s had a hand in hell.  But right now?  He’s scared of a ghost.

_There’s no such thing._

Right?

“I wish you’d talk to me, Buck,” Steve says.  After so much time spent utterly quiet (God, they’ve been laying here, not moving and not talking for probably more than an hour), his soft voice is booming.  Bucky almost lurches in surprise, and his frightened eyes go to the windows before he can stop them.  Nothing but pitch blackness.  An abyss, almost.  A void.  He stares into it.  _She’s out there._

Steve sighs.  “Bucky, come on.  Please.  I _know_ something’s wrong.”

“Let’s…  Let’s have sex.”

There’s no answer at first.  Bucky can’t shift his gaze from the ceiling, because he knows it’ll either go right back to the windows ( _God, no_ ) or Steve, and he’s just as scared of Steve’s reaction as whatever may be outside.  Then he hears Steve roll over.  “What?”

Bucky finally grows a backbone and turns to the man he loves, the only person he’s _ever_ loved and will _ever_ love.  “I want us to have sex.”

Steve’s eyes are ridiculously bright in the darkness.  He seems flummoxed for a couple seconds, which makes sense.  This is coming rather sharply out of left field.  “Are you sure?  I mean…  When we’ve tried before, it’s never…  You’ve never…”  He doesn’t know what to say.  Bucky can hear it all the same.  _You’ve never been able to follow through, because you’re too fucked up.  You’re too afraid._

_Coward._

He doesn’t feel one bit _less_ fucked up or afraid now.  One creepy afternoon of utter impossible craziness has seemingly dashed any progress he thought he made on that front.  And he’s fucking terrified, terrified of Steve wanting him, terrified of Steve _not_ wanting him.  Terrified of _everything._ “You don’t want to?” he asks, trying not to sound like the sun rises and sets on Steve’s answer.

Steve bites his lower lip.  “Of course I want to.  God, do I ever.  But I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“You’re not forcing me,” Bucky answers.  “You never would or could.”

“I want you to be okay with it.”

“I _am_ okay with it.”  Steve doesn’t believe that for a second.  Bucky can tell.  “Are you…”  And now the question comes.  He can’t stop it.  It’s closer to the surface than ever.  “Are you afraid?”

Steve smiles.  His hands come up to clasp Bucky’s face, and he inches closer.  “How could I possibly be afraid of you?”

That’s placating bullshit.  “You know how,” Bucky whispers, and the pain inside roars.  It’s loud and violent compared to the groan of thunder that rolls over the house.  All the awfulness he can normally keep at bay comes charging at him, battering his composure.  “Christ, Steve, _you know._   You know better than anyone what I did.  Hundreds of people.”  Steve’s smile collapses.  “They’re all dead.  And, yeah, I didn’t have a choice, but I still did it.”  Bucky’s voice wavers.  “If Insight had launched…”

“It didn’t,” Steve assures.  “It didn’t.”

“Because of you.  And I shot you.”  Bucky’s hands slide to Steve’s stomach, to the firm, unblemished skin where the wound had been.  He kissed there earlier.  What right does he have to do that, even to touch Steve now?  “I shot you and stabbed you and–”

“It wasn’t you.”  Steve’s voice is soft and so certain.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I still did it.”  He says it again, because that’s the truth.  The only truth.  Strip away the exoneration and vindication and absolution, and this is what’s left.  “I still hurt you.  So you know how.  This?”  Bucky raises his metal hand.  “This is a weapon, no matter how many times Stark redesigns it and changes it and makes it different.  It’s still a goddamn weapon.”

Steve doesn’t let him say more.  He takes his metal fingers and pulls his hand to his face.  Bucky can’t exactly feel things as one normally would, even with all of Tony’s upgrades, but his brain has gotten awfully good at supplying the missing information.  Like how soft and wet and warm Steve’s lips are as they wrap around his fingers.  His kisses are worshipful.  Reverent.  Bucky can’t breathe for how his heart swells with love.  “How could I possibly be afraid of you,” Steve says again once he’s done.  It’s not a question.  “I love you.”

Bucky’s restraint just fails him.  He’s so desperate to feel something, to feel _good_ , that he throws caution to the wind.  He grasps Steve’s face and tugs him closer, slots his mouth right over Steve’s and kisses hard.  Once more Steve’s a little surprised, but he kisses back right away, opens his mouth and lets Bucky take.  Bucky does.  It’s slow at first, even though they’ve kissed so many times before just like this.  It feels different with the promise of intimacy on the horizon, and Bucky’s still feeling so unsettled.  Afraid and unworthy and desperate for acceptance.

Desperate to feel whole.

When they break apart, Steve smiles and tugs at him.  “Come on,” he coaxes, laying more on his back.  “I trust you.”

Bucky climbs atop him.  He feels strange, like he’s not quite in his body, like this isn’t all real.  That vague sense of disconnection is back, but it’s not enough to cool the sudden desire burning hot inside him.  It feels wild, so intense, and he pushes back against it for a second, stopping his hips from rolling down into Steve’s.  And Steve gasps, tipping his head back to expose the long line of his neck and lifting his hips right into Bucky’s.  God, if that’s not an invitation, Bucky doesn’t know what is.  And he wants to take it.  A million wonderful memories – kissing up Steve’s then much skinner throat, sucking marks there carefully below Steve’s collar so no one would see, Steve atop him, chasing his pleasure, Steve’s mouth around him and hot like a furnace, careful but getting more and more confident – are right there at the edge of his mind.  With them is the tantalizing whisper of pleasure, of being needed, of being _loved._ It’ll be okay to feel that again, wouldn’t it?  To let himself succumb to how much he wants?  It used to be so simple, so easy.  His body was Steve’s, and Steve’s was his, and there was nothing but love and trust and devotion between them.  Is it wrong to want that back?

_Steve wants me to touch him._

Steve’s looking up at him, eyes a little hazy, lips curled in a hint of a smile.  “C’mon, darling. What’re you waitin’ for?

_“Then finish it.  ’Cause I’m with you till the end of the line.”_

The memory comes like a bull stampeding, crushing that hint of purpose and pleasure.  Suddenly he sees Steve just like this, only Steve’s face his beaten and his body is trapped beneath the Winter Soldier’s bulk, and he’s hurt.  The helicarrier is falling apart all around them, burning and breaking, and he’s _letting_ Bucky hurt him.  He threw down his shield.  _He threw down his shield._

And Bucky has his life in his hands.  The metal fist is poised to strike, the metal fist that has rammed over and over again into Steve’s face.  The one that pulled the trigger on the gun and stabbed the knife into his shoulder.  The urge to strike is nearly impossible to hold at bay.  This is who he is, what he was made to do.  _Kill._

“Bucky?”

Bucky’s lurching off Steve before he’s even realizing it.  His fist’s not raised, is it?  _No._   It’s on the white cotton of Steve’s shirt, fingers splayed over his stomach right above his navel.  _Right where I shot him._

His burgeoning erection wilts in record time as he scrambles off the bed.  Steve leans up, shocked, but Bucky can’t stay still long enough to focus on him.  No, he’s looking around, glancing hurriedly from window to window, looking for _her_.  Is she here?  Is she making him see these things?

No.  There’s nothing outside, nothing but rain and shadows.  Bucky’s shaking.  He can’t breathe.  The room’s spinning, and his brain’s stuttering uselessly.  His skin’s fucking _crawling._   _I wasn’t going to hit him.  I wasn’t!_

He’s not sure.

Steve’s touch makes him jump, but Steve’s strong, and he doesn’t let go where he’s taken Bucky’s flesh and blood arm.  He’s standing right beside him.  “What’s wrong?” he asks.  Bucky says nothing, looking around again, and he knows Steve’s staring at him in exasperation, but he can’t stop looking because _he knows she’s there._   “Bucky!”

“What?” Bucky snaps.  That’s harsh and vicious, but he can’t help it.

Steve’s just watching him, shaking his head in small jerks.  The silence that follows is nothing short of agonizing.  Bucky’s heart is still booming in his ears.  He can’t get his mind working enough to think of anything to say.  He should explain.  He knows it.  But he can’t.

Eventually Steve gathers himself.  His touch becomes tender, and he tugs Bucky around, pulls him into a hug.  Bucky’s stiff.  He can’t make himself relax, even as Steve, undaunted, squeezes him tighter.  For some reason, these always feel the strangest.  The simple, innocuous hugs.  It’s Steve’s big body and huge arm span and strong grip.  That’s a sharp dichotomy to what Bucky remembers most from his life before, of little Steve, enfolded and ensconced in _his_ embrace, nearly swallowed by his arms.  Safe and protected.

He doesn’t feel either, even as Steve rubs his hands up and down his back.  His voice is warm and soft in Bucky’s ear.  “Let’s just go to sleep, okay?  We don’t have to do anything.”

That feels like a fucking monumental failure, one heaped onto all the other times they’ve tried before to have sex.  “No,” Bucky groans.  “Goddamn it.  Fuck…”

“It’s alright,” Steve whispers, kissing his cheek and then his temple.  “Not a competition.  No deadline.  When you’re ready, love, and not a second before.”

Bucky’s eyes sting.  Fuck, he is _not_ going to cry over this.  What the hell is the matter with him today?  “You deserve better than this,” he whispers, fighting to keep down the sob inching up his throat.

“Don’t,” Steve orders.  He pulls back, cupping Bucky’s unshaven face between his hands.  “Don’t do that to yourself.  I can wait.  I’ll wait however long I have to for you.”

“That could be a long time,” Bucky says, utterly defeated.

“So’s seventy years,” replies Steve with a lopsided smile.  “A couple more weeks or months or whatever doesn’t matter.”  Steve kisses him softly, and all the awkward pain is dissipating, moment by moment and breath by breath.  “It’s alright.  It really is.  Come back to bed.”

Bucky hesitates for only a second more.  He’s so turned around and confused inside that the notion of comfort is the only thing that makes sense.  Therefore he lets Steve direct him back to their bed, lets him pull him down, lets him shower his face in soft kisses before covering them both in the duvet.  Steve settles right beside him and pulls him into his arms without reservation.

It gets quiet again.  Bucky’s got his head pillowed on Steve’s right shoulder, and Steve’s arm is around his back.  His fingers trace a path up and down Bucky’s spine through his t-shirt.  That should be soothing, but for some reason it just feels uncomfortable.  Bucky doesn’t say anything, though.  From here he can see the windows and the heavy, heavy blackness outside.  He watches and watches.  There’s nothing but rain, thick water covering the panes.  Rain and darkness and the ghosts haunting his thoughts.

“You know, if you want…”  Steve doesn’t finish right away.  Now he’s the one who seems uncomfortable, but after a long moment, he decides to press on.  “If you want, I could get you off?  Sometime.  If it’d make you feel better.  I want you to feel good.”  He gets braver, taking Bucky’s left hand where it’s smooshed between them and weaving their fingers together on top of his own stomach.  “If you want.  Whatever you want, Buck.  I don’t need anything in return.  If you’re scared of being touched…  You know I’d never hurt you.”  He closes his eyes tightly.  “Maybe…”  Steve sighs.  “Maybe we can ease back into it that way.”

Something deep inside him finds the offer repulsive.  It’s the part of him that loves Steve, loves him so much, that can’t be so selfish as to let Steve do that for him no matter how many times Steve tells him it’s okay and that he wants to.  That part can’t stand taking and not giving, can’t abide by his own broken state.  They’re best friends, lovers, _equals_ , even when no one else saw it.  He can’t let Steve do that for him.

But there’s something else inside him, too.  Something dark and damaged that wasn’t there the last time the two of them made love.  Or maybe it was, but it was quieter, sweetly possessive, a little filthy streak in him that Steve adored, a touch demanding and insatiable but in the best of ways.  It’s all mixed up now with what HYDRA put inside him.  At least, he’s afraid it is, because when Steve says that…

The thumb of his metal hand is right over that spot, the spot where he put a bullet in Steve’s belly.  He can almost see the blood, see the shock on Steve’s face as he slumps against the targeting array console and looks down.  He can almost feel…

_“Molodets, soldat.”_

It feels _wrong._ And sick.  And _wanting_.

He’s shaking his head before he’s even processed that.  “Okay,” Steve says after a beat.  He kisses Bucky’s head.  “Just a thought.”

Bucky pulls away and curls onto his side, closing his eyes tight and trying not to think anymore.  He’s going to sleep now.  He is.

* * *

Only he still doesn’t, at least not for a long while.  Steve doesn’t sleep either.  They lay silently for hours, neither moving like they’re both afraid to.  Bucky knows he is.  Nothing feels peaceful.  Nothing feels good.  Suddenly everything that was right is all wrong again, all twisted and demented.  Bucky doesn’t even know why.  As the night slowly slips away, he hears Steve’s breathing finally level off.  He’s listened to it so many times in his life that the sense memory survived all of HYDRA’s tortures, the distinct sound of Steve falling asleep.  Lulled by Steve’s soft breathing, Bucky drifts in his head, in the place between wakefulness and slumber.  There’s a voice there, in the quiet.

_“You have your orders, soldier.”_

He does, but he wants.  He’s not sure when that started.  He never used to.  They never _let_ him want.  He had his orders, and he followed them.  Mechanically, precisely, without deviation.  His existence started and ended with his orders.  There was nothing before, nothing after.  This was what they trained him to do, _made_ him to do.  This was who he was.

_“He’s been out of cryofreeze too long.”_

Is that why?

_“You failed in your mission.”_

He knows he did.

_“Clearly there’s a fault in the programming.”_

He has to fight.  They’re taking him somewhere.  The chair.

 _God help me._   Lightning rakes over his brain.  _Forgive me my sins._

God isn’t helping him.  God is smiting him.  Punishing him.

_I’m sorry!_

_“You think anyone’s ever going to forgive you?  No one will.”_   That was Tony’s voice, Tony at the beginning.  Tony full of pain and grief and anger, before he came to understand just what HYDRA had done to the Winter Soldier.  He’d go on to apologize, but the words stuck like barbs.  _“You’re a fucking monster.”_

_“The new fist of HYDRA.  The new world order.”_

Screams.  A woman screaming.  He’s screaming, too.  Strapped into the chair.  He is not allowed to want.  He is not allowed to choose.  He is not allowed to _have._

_“I’m yours, ain’t I, Buck?”_

_“Yeah, Stevie.  Yeah.  But take it easy there.  No rush.  Not going anywhere.”_

Steve was on top of him, trying to settle into having Bucky inside him.  It was always so slow, so hard for him, and Bucky didn’t like it.  Well, he _loved_ it; Steve was so hot inside, so tight, but, God, he was skinny, and when he was like this, naked and shivering with the discomfort and effort, Bucky could count every rib.  They did it this way a lot, with Steve controlling the pace and the angle and how deep Bucky went, and it was deliriously good, but Bucky worried.  He worried it was too much, that he was too big, that Steve’s asthma would act up or his bad heart would just give out.  He worried, and he held Steve’s hips still when Steve finally worked his little body all the way down so his ass was flush to the tops of Bucky’s thighs.  _“What?”_ Steve gasps, misinterpreting Bucky’s hesitation.  _“Don’t you want me?”_

_I want you._

_“Whatever you want, Buck.  I just want you to feel good.”_

It feels like there’s another voice inside him, tangled up in all these memories.  A low hiss.  The monster within.  The darkness.  He’s frightened of it.  _Take what you want._

So he rolls over.  In the darkness, Steve’s sleeping beside him on his back.  Peaceful.  Unaware.  _Vulnerable._ The heavy hiss of the rain blots out the sound of his breathing.  Water running.  Bucky’s _aching_ inside, hard as hell and hurting with it.  And he doesn’t think, because he has his orders.  He’s swift, ruthless, a wraith in the blackness of their bedroom, as he pins Steve into mattress.  Steve snaps awake, but it’s too late.  Bucky’s already on him.  He yanks at Steve’s A-shirt, ripping it clear off him before dragging away his pajama pants and boxers.  He’s quick, and Steve’s too shocked to do much at first.  Those seconds are costly.  Bucky pins his wrists with his flesh and blood hand.  Grabs his neck and squeezes with the other, metal fingers choking him.  He’s ruthless, and he knows what he’s doing, knows how much pressure to use and where to put it to bring his victim down quickly.  Steve’s struggling now, struggling hard, but he’s not going anywhere.

 _Hurt him._   That voice inside is sounding more and more like his own.

“Don’t fight me!” he snarls, squeezing even harder at Steve’s throat, forcing his chin up and his head back.  Steve coughs and gurgles, and Bucky sacrifices his grip on his hands to strangle him more effectively.  Even with all that enhanced strength, Steve can’t – _won’t_ – hurt him.  He knows that.  Steve promised.  _“You know I’d never hurt you.”_

 _Target’s prior relationship with the Asset may prove to be an effective exploit._   Steve’s losing consciousness rapidly.  _Target threw down his shield._

“Please, don’t,” Steve desperately grounds out.  He’s pushing Bucky away, but even that’s not with all his strength.  He’s not willing to hurt him back.  He’s not willing to kill him, not even to save himself.  Not even as Bucky pushes down his own pants and presses between Steve’s legs.  “Please don’t do this, Bucky!”

_Target gets what he deserves._

It’s fast.  Brutal.  Steve gets enough air to scream for the first moment, but now he’s quiet aside from a few reedy, soft sobs.  He gives up, submitting to what’s happening.  And it’s happening.  Bucky doesn’t hold back, moving fast and hard, choking Steve violently as he viciously penetrates him over and over again.  Steve’s so hot inside, so dry and tight even as he’s ripped open.  It hurts Bucky to do it like this, but it’s good, too.  Power and control.  Pleasure and pain, mixing together until he can’t tell one from the other.  He can feel blood between them, hot and sticky.  He can smell it on the air.  It fuels him further, and everything else falls away.  He loses himself completely, drowning in the harsh, raw throbbing of his erection, the whimpers pushed out of Steve’s mouth, the driving need to possess this…  There’s nothing inside him other than this machine, following its orders and chasing its pleasure.  _Take what you want._

He finds it.  Takes it.  After so much time, so much frustration and yearning and _wanting_ , the climax is earth-shattering.  He thrusts hard, goes still, lets it all consume him.  It feels so good.

_This is who you are._

He comes back to himself slowly, riding the last vestiges of his orgasm, savoring it until it’s long gone and he’s tacky with sweat and soft in Steve’s body.  He can’t keep the smile from his face even though he knows he’s not supposed to feel satisfaction in his work.  Then he looks down.

Steve’s still pinned beneath him, watching him with teary, deadened eyes.  His face is flushed, blotchy from hypoxia and the struggle.  Somewhere during it all Bucky hit him, hit him hard and numerous times, painted ugly welts all over him.  Maybe he kissed him, too, because Steve’s lips are torn and wet and swollen, and Bucky can taste tears and the bitter tang of blood.  Steve looks like he did back then, back on the helicarrier.  Battered and broken, only there’s no vow this time.  No faith or hope.  There’s only a whimper of a word.  “Why?”

_“Because you belong to HYDRA, Sergeant Barnes.”_

The rage breaks loose.  The voice inside screams.  The Winter Soldier _kills._ “You should know better than to trust me,” Bucky hisses.  Then the metal fist comes up, and this time it doesn’t stop.  It comes down, beats, _destroys._ Blood like rain and darkness.

Water’s running.

There’s light.  It’s morning.  Bucky opens his eyes.  He’s lying face down in the pillows, tangled in the sheets and blanket.  For the longest time, he can’t bring himself to move.  He’s…  Was he sleeping?  Christ, he must have been.  _A nightmare._   It had to be.  _It was a nightmare._

He shivers, gasps a sob weakly into pillows that are wet with sweat and tears.  He tries to breathe, to slow his pounding heart, to overcome the icy tingle of panic.  When he does, he can still hear the tinkle of water splashing down, like a faucet running into a sink or a tub that’s already full to the brim.  He turns his head, squinting in confusion as he looks into the bathroom.

The door’s open.  There she is in her white nightgown.  She’s still wet, soaking in fact, dripping all over the nice tile.  Her brown hair is stringy and stuck to her head and neck, making her look even thinner and more waiflike.  Wickedly ethereal.  She’s staring at him with that deadened gaze.  Too afraid to do anything else, Bucky’s just staring back again.  Water runs from the bathroom floor and onto the hardwoods of the bedroom, a slow, inexorable flood.

Then her eyes focus.  There’s so much hatred there.  _So much._   She turns her gaze to the bed.

Bucky turns over.

Steve’s beside him.  _Blood everywhere._   It’s staining everything, turning whatever it touches a deep, gruesome red.  It’s all over the sheets.  All over Steve’s face.  Steve’s chest.  Between Steve’s thighs and down his legs.  _Blood._   And Steve’s not moving.  Not breathing.  His eyes are open but empty.  Unseeing.  Devoid of all life and light and love.  Raped and beaten and murdered.

_Dead._

_You killed him._

Horrified, Bucky falls from the bed and screams.

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinks, twists, flails right into something tall and warm.  _Steve._   It _is_ Steve, strong and big and _alive._ Steve grabs him, pulls him close, holds him without a second of hesitation.  Bucky finally sucks in a wheezing breath, his face pressed hard into Steve’s shoulder, mouth open in a soundless scream.  Steve smells just like he always does, the masculine scents of soap and clean skin.  No stink of sex or metallic odor of blood.  There’s _no_ blood.  Bucky’s hands rush over Steve’s naked body, but there’s _nothing_ there but smooth, hot, wet skin fresh from the shower.

The shower’s running.

That’s what it is.  _The shower._   But the conclusion still doesn’t make enough sense to pierce through the haze of horror in his head, and he’s pulling out of Steve’s arms, staggering to his feet, stumbling with absolutely no coordination to the bathroom.  The door’s open from where Steve came rushing out, letting out billows of steam.  He charges through, but she’s vanished again.  There’s nothing but clean, white tile and gray mist.  Alarmed, he spins around uselessly, too addled to even be relieved.  The mirror’s fogged, but Bucky can see a cloudy hint of his reflection.  His messy brown hair.  Dead gray eyes.

The black mask on his face, covering his mouth and nose.  _The Winter Soldier._

He touches his chin and feels nothing but skin and stubble, but he can still feel the rough, textured surface of the mask, the muzzle, the mouth guard, the bit between his teeth, the blood and sweat and tears…

“Bucky?  Bucky!”  Steve’s calling him, and he looks back, sees Steve through the mist.  He’s quickly put on a pair of boxers, and his hair’s wet and sticking up wildly.  His eyes…  They’re bright and blue.  Full of life and light and love.  And worry.  And fear.  “What happened?  Are you okay?  Jesus, Buck…”

_It wasn’t real.  It wasn’t real.  It’s not real not real not real–_

_I didn’t do it!_

But he can taste the blood and feel the sick pleasure and the power of holding Steve down and taking what he wants, what he needs, _what he deserves_.

And that’s all it takes to drop him to the clammy bathroom floor.  He barely gets to the toilet in time, bile blasting and searing its way up his throat.  Grasping the porcelain bowl, he retches.  And retches.  And _retches._

Steve’s right beside him, pressed up to his back, reaching for his hair to pull it out of his face.  His touch is utterly repulsive, and Bucky wants to pull away, to run and hide, but he can’t.  He’s too sick, in too much pain, and all he can do is throw up until the hellish misery is reduced to dry heaving and ragged sobs.

“It’s okay,” Steve soothes.  Vaguely Bucky feels him reach over, pushing aside the shower curtain and stretching across the large bath tub to shut off the shower.  The hissing immediately quiets, the roar of water splashing turning instead to soft, sporadic plops as things settle.  Then Steve’s hands are back, tender, and the solace breaches Bucky’s self-defenses.  “It’s okay, Buck.  Hey, hey.  Look at me, darling.  Can you look at me?”

Bucky can’t.  He can’t bear the mere possibility of looking into Steve’s eyes and seeing the love and trust there.  He knows if he does, the horrific perversion he dreamed will come back and hurt him again.  So he squeezes his eyes shut.  Steve doesn’t force him, doesn’t do anything aside from gather him close until Bucky is practically curled into his lap with his face pressed into Steve’s shoulder and his fingers digging frantically into his back.  “It’s okay,” Steve whispers again.  “It’s okay.  I swear.  It’s okay, Buck.  It’s okay.”

The sound of the water dripping from the showerhead and splashing into the tub is unbelievably loud.  Rhythmic.  Thunderous.  As steady and heavy as his heart beating.  And there’s water spreading on the floor, spreading in a pool.  The toilet bowl is cracked where his left hand had been.  The cold liquid soaks into his sweatpants.  He jerks against it.  “Easy.  It’s alright.”  Steve pulls him closer.  “It’s okay.”

It’s not.  Bucky burrows deeper into Steve’s arms, burying his face into the nape of Steve’s neck, and Steve holds tight.  On and on it goes.  Bucky cries for forever, and when he finally opens his aching eyes…

She’s there.  He can see her over Steve’s shoulder.  She’s standing at the open door to the bedroom, just standing there and dripping.  She says nothing, does nothing.  Walks away.

“It’s okay, Bucky.  It’s okay…”

Bucky closes his eyes again.  _It’s not._

* * *

It takes a lot, but Steve finally gets Bucky off the bathroom floor.  Bucky feels terrible, weak and low, sick and dizzy and cold with the stress response.  He can’t speak, can’t do much really other than barely keep his balance as Steve moves him upward and onto the closed toilet seat.  It’s alright, Bucky thinks as he watches Steve pull his sweatpants and boxers off.  This has happened before, where a flashback or a nightmare really puts him through the wringer, shatters him, and Steve is left to pick up the pieces.  Never this bad, though.

_Not like this._

Steve is quiet, all gentle words and soft tones and loving touches.  He takes Bucky’s shirt off, too, and gets a few towels.  Bucky’s shivering, and Steve is quick to get him wrapped up in expensive, plush cotton and his arms.  He knows what he’s doing.  If Bucky lets himself pay attention, he can see the deeply rooted fear in Steve’s eyes, the miserable worry.  He can’t acknowledge it.  The world is fuzzy, distant, and he feels dissociated.  Again, Steve doesn’t press.  He just whispers comfort, handles Bucky with the utmost compassion and care.  He strips off his own underwear and gets them both bundled into the shower.

The sound of the water makes Bucky flinch, but Steve gently holds him still, making sure he’s well supported.  Maybe that should’ve rankled Bucky’s pride, but he frankly feels about as steady as a drunkard.  His initial revulsion to the shower disappears under the hot spray.  It feels good, cleansing.  Pure.  Steve’s quick to wash him, lathering up his hair with his shampoo, soaping his body with thorough but kind hands.  Bucky leans against him and the wall and drifts.  It’s too much to do anything else.  He floats and watches the water sluice off his body, off Steve’s body, and down into the drain.  There’s no blood.  Just clear liquid that’s frothy with suds.  Nothing more.   _No blood._

It feels like a long time that they’re in there, but some part of Bucky’s brain still functioning realizes it’s not.  Steve shuts the water off, and immediately Bucky is shivering harder.  Steve’s quick to get the towels, wrapping one of the huge, luxurious bath sheets around Bucky’s body before gently drying his hair.  He gives himself a more perfunctory pat-down before getting Bucky out and back into their bedroom.

It’s fucking _shocking_ to see their bed with its crisp gray sheets and Navy blue duvet and gray and blue pillows.  No blood.  No sign of the horrific assault.  _It’s not real._   Bucky keeps telling himself that with all the fortitude of a whisper.  And he has all the strength and stature of a wet rag doll as Steve dresses him in a clean pair of pajamas.  He throws on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt himself, but he doesn’t leave.  Bucky thinks he may shatter completely if Steve should walk away from him now.

But of course he doesn’t, because Steve doesn’t know what Bucky did to him, and because he’s Steve.  Something tells Bucky that even if he _did_ know, Steve wouldn’t even consider abandoning him.  Steve practically burned down the world to find him and bring him back after HYDRA’s fall.  Steve’s let him lash out before when the flashbacks and nightmares got violent.  Steve stood in front of the world and defended him.  And Steve gave up being Captain America, gave up his shield.  Threw the shield _down_ and let Bucky beat the hell out of him.

Steve stopped fighting, let Bucky…  Let him…  God, he can’t even think about what he dreamed.  The heinous, _disgusting_ pleasure.  It’s all he can do not to throw up again.

Steve seems to sense his distress.  Without further delay, he climbs into bed with him.  He has no idea what touch means now, what it means to Bucky or what it _should_ mean to him, but somehow he’s slow and cautious all the same, gingerly fitting himself to Bucky’s back after pulling the covers back up over them both.  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers in Bucky’s ear.  Bucky closes his eyes at the bitter, bitter irony.  Steve kisses the side of his neck, softly sweeping his hair aside.  “Sleep.  You’ll feel better once you do.”

Bucky’s so emotionally spent and beaten now that sleep comes surprisingly easy.  It’s deep, dreamless, and when he wakes up later, he’s alone.  The day is still gray but brighter.  Things feel lighter.  Different.  Like the presence is gone from inside him.  Like _her_ presence is gone.

What the fuck is that?  _Her presence._   There’s no such thing.  There is no such thing as a ghost.  If he’s right, and he killed that girl, then she’s _dead_ , and this can’t be happening.  That seems like the first, firm, cognizant thought he’s had since he saw… whatever he saw yesterday in town.  He feels stronger for having it, like he’s not going completely goddamn insane.  He’s seeing things, _dreaming_ things, that _are not real._

Emboldened by that, he gets himself out of their bed and to the bathroom.  He brushes the taste of absolute swill out of his mouth, and gets a comb through the mess of his hair (which dried all funky while he was sleeping).  Then he glances in the mirror and sees…  Well, himself.  His face.  His unshaven jaw and brown hair and eyes.  His lips, pressed into a frown.  He’s a little pale, eyes red and ringed in just a bit of darkness and perhaps a little hollow, but it’s just him.  He _feels_ like himself, this person he was on his way toward becoming until yesterday.

Maybe…  Maybe it is okay.

He comes back to the bedroom.  Steve’s definitely gone downstairs; a normal person wouldn’t be able to hear it, but Bucky picks up the soft clanking of dishes in the kitchen.  He can smell coffee brewing, too.  It’s so damn gray outside, the heavy clouds still lingering, so it’s hard to tell exactly what time of day it is, but Bucky’s internal clock puts it well past breakfast.  Early afternoon, probably.  He takes a deep breath and finds some clothes, tracks pants and a black t-shirt that’s been washed and worn way too many times.  After dressing, he finally feels brave enough to face the day.  To face Steve.

Quietly he makes his way downstairs.  The house seems distant again, cold and tentative.  Normally he wouldn’t believe in crazy crap like a _place_ having a spirit, but it sure feels like it.  And it sure feels like whatever welcome he may have had here is gone.  That’s stupid and ridiculous, but after the last twenty-four hours it’s feeling mighty appropriate.

Sure enough, Steve’s in the kitchen.  On the gas range he’s got a pot boiling, and the thousand-dollar coffee making is indeed brewing.  He’s got an array of cold cuts, sandwich fixings, and fresh bread on the island.  “Hey,” he greets, trying to sound light but failing pretty fantastically.  “How are you feeling?”

Bucky has no fucking clue.  _Numb.  Terrified.  Ashamed.  Sick._ “Okay, I guess.”

Steve seems to take that at face value.  “You want some lunch?  I’m heating up last night’s leftovers, too.”

Bucky drags his gaze from Steve’s face to the countertop.  There’s a knife there sticking out of the jar of mayonnaise and a plate with lettuce and chopped up peppers.  Cheese and turkey and ham.  Tomato guts are splayed all over the cutting board, watered down and seedy red, and Steve’s hands are wet with them.  Bucky’s eyes trace the lines of his fingers and the angles of his wrists as he puts the slices on the sandwiches, and all the sudden he’s fighting hard to push down the memory of squeezing those wrists so tight he could feel the bones inside crack and give.  It feels like there’s a flood behind his control, an onslaught of vivid, awful memories.  He can’t let them loose.

So he nods and sits and prays eating something will calm his roiling stomach.  Pleased, Steve smiles softly again, setting a plate with Bucky’s sandwich in front of him.  Then he goes to the cooktop, grabbing a couple bowls from the cabinets as he does.  “Sposed to rain all week,” he comments as he takes a ladle to the pot.  “I hate days like these.  So damn dreary.”

Bucky doesn’t so much as glance outside, too terrified to look.  Not that it matters.  It’s not like inside the house is any safer or less fucked up than out there.  Instead he hunches over his plate, metal arm tucked close across his chest on the counter, flesh and blood one forward in some attempt to look more relaxed and casual than he feels.  It’s a bullshit front, and he knows Steve won’t believe it.

It takes Steve a good while to finally call him out on it, though.  He brings the two bowls of soup over and sits on the stool to his left.  Then he tucks into his own meal for a bit.  It’s so damn awkward that Bucky can hardly stand it.  He just stares at his lunch, too lost and uncertain to take so much as a bite.  He can feel Steve beside him despite the distance between them, like his tension and uncertainty is real and powerful all on its own.  It makes Bucky want to run, scream, _hide_.  And Steve doesn’t even know the half of what happened, the slightest bit about what he dreamed.

_Christ._

Eventually the miserable silence gets to be too much.  Steve chews politely, glancing at Bucky’s uneaten lunch before leaning back a little.  He sighs after he swallows.  “So… are we going to talk about this?”

Bucky sighs too, though his is shakier.  He tries not to be angry.  None of this is Steve’s fault.  Hell, he’s not even sure what _this_ is (which is fucking ironic, given how much _this_ has him twisted up inside).  There’s no escaping this conversation.  He can’t just shut Steve out.  He can’t lie, either.  He owes Steve more than that, loves him too much to hurt him like that.  Steve’s weathered every other step of his recovery with him; why not this, too?  “I, uh…  I had a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, because that’s obvious.  He waits for Bucky to continue.  Bucky doesn’t, because Bucky is goddamn coward.  “You want to tell me what it was about?”

The room closes in, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.  It’s all he can do to keep himself present.  The tiniest acknowledgment of that darkness inside him is too much.  “I…”  He can’t say it.  _He can’t._ “I – I hurt you.”  That seems insufficient.  He glances at Steve, trying to gauge his reaction, but Steve has none other than solemn compassion.  It turns Bucky’s stomach.  “Bad,” he adds in a whisper.

The weight of Steve’s gaze feels astronomical.  Bucky can hardly raise his head under it, definitely can’t meet Steve’s eyes.  The quiet is a punishment all its own.  And he _knows_ Steve won’t blame him, _wouldn’t_ blame him even if he knew the unspeakable truth, but it’s hard to convince his heart.  He feels filthy, sullied, _wrong_ to his core.  He’s done wrong, lived nightmares, but never so terrible.

What’d he do to deserve this?

“You wouldn’t, Buck.”  He can barely hear Steve’s soft certainty over the rush of blood in his ears.  “You know that.  Don’t you?”  He sets his hand to Bucky’s metal shoulder.

Bucky lurches away.  “No,” he whispers, fighting tears.  _You should know better than to trust me._

“Hey, Buck.  Bucky, _look_ at me.”  Just as it did in the bathroom, Steve’s voice commands obedience no matter how gentle and loving it is, and Bucky finds himself finally picking up his gaze to meet his lover’s eyes.  “You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore.  You’re not.  And you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”  Bucky winces.  “You _wouldn’t._ ”  Steve frowns, still not understanding.  “Is this from last night?  What we talked about?”

That’s a way out, in a sense, a way to hide.  “Yeah.  Yeah, maybe.”  But the lie makes him feel worse, and he’s shaking his head.  “No.  No, I – I don’t know.”

“Buck?”  Steve touches his shoulder again, and Bucky manages to keep his composure enough not to shake him off this time.  “Come on.  You know I won’t judge you or think anything less of you.”

 _God._   This is his chance to explain.  He knows he should take it, no matter how crazy and stupid this is.  Still, he hesitates a few seconds more because there’s no way he can turn this around in his head where he doesn’t sound like a complete fucking lunatic.  Eventually he just goes for it.  “Yesterday when we were in town, I thought I…  Well, I saw John.”

“Yeah, you said,” Steve says, but his tone is not the least bit annoyed.

“It…  It wasn’t just him.  There was someone with him, but…  Fuck, it can’t be real.”  Steve’s forehead crinkles in confusion.  Bucky watches him a moment before conceding that he’ll need to say more.  “A girl was standing next to him.  She was just staring at me, and I stared back, and I…  I know this is insane, Steve.  I know it is!  And I know I gotta be going crazy or something, but I just…  I can’t explain it.”

Steve still doesn’t get it.  “Can’t explain what?”

There’s no sense in lying.  Bucky sighs and gathers himself.  “I know she’s dead.”

“You know she’s dead?” Steve repeats dubiously.  Bucky doesn’t respond, staring at his now cold bowl of soup.  “How do you…  Oh.”  He doesn’t need to say it.  It’s miserably, _painfully_ obvious.  _I know she’s dead because I killed her._   Steve exhales slowly.  “How?”

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.  He feels ridiculously agitated.  “I don’t know.  I don’t remember anything else.  I just know she’s dead.  I can’t tell you why, or when, or _who…_   I can’t tell you anything other than _she’s dead_ , but I saw her on the street yesterday, _here_ of all places, and all sorts of… _weird_ shit has been happening since then.”

“Weird shit?”  Steve squints at him, trying to make sense of this.  “Wait, you’ve seen other things besides that?”

Bucky nods.  _In for a penny, in for a pound._   “I could have sworn she was in our yard last night.”

Steve’s eyes widen.  “In our yard?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky tips his head to the windows, but he still can’t make himself look out of them.  “Down by the lake.  And when I saw her again, she was right outside the house.  On the other side of the window.”  The image of that girl, soaked to the bone out in the rain, glaring at him through the glass…  “She was covered in blood.”  Steve says nothing to that.  “And then, after the nightmare I had…”

“It can’t be real.”  Now Steve speaks, and it’s said in that confident tone he has.  Bucky knows him too well not to hear the doubt, though.  See it in Steve’s worried eyes and pale face.  “I haven’t seen anything.”

“Of course not,” Bucky says tightly.  “You aren’t the one who murdered her.”

“Jesus, Buck, that’s–”

“She’s angry.”  He doesn’t know anything about her, not really, but he knows that.  “Really angry.”

Steve’s horrified, and for a second he doesn’t hide it.  The unspoken implication hangs between them.  Then he shakes his head.  “Ghosts don’t exist.  Evil spirits or whatever.  They don’t exist.”

Bucky appraises him with exhausted, sad eyes.  “You sure about that?”

Steve’s mouth is hanging open, like he was going to say more, and he’s slow to close it.  He’s slow to say whatever it is, because he knows Bucky’s right.  The things they’ve seen and done, the incredible and unpredictable lives they’ve led…  Aliens and gods come to earth and evil scientists whose brains have been transferred to computers.  Rage monsters and people who can move things with their minds.  The super soldier serum.  God, _both_ of them should have died decades ago, but they’re here because of shit like this.  Is it so hard to believe that ghosts could be real?  Does _this_ push the envelope too far into the realm of impossibility?

It doesn’t for Bucky.  Not after yesterday.

A long moment of silence slips away.  It feels like it’s been stretched interminably long, and Bucky just drifts in it.  Then Steve shakes his head, pushing his half-eaten lunch away like it’s suddenly tasting foul.  “We gotta go back to the complex.”

That comes as such a shock that Bucky doesn’t follow.  “Huh?”

Steve shakes his head.  “Wanda said this could happen.  The doctors did, too.  As your brain heals, memories can come out of nowhere, and they could be strong and upsetting.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Who’s to say they might not bring flashbacks with them?”

Bucky frowns.  “I’ve had flashbacks, Steve.  You know I have, and you have, too, and trust me when tell you this is different.”

Steve doesn’t give up.  “Well, hallucinations, then.  I don’t know.  Something’s going on in your head.”  Bucky closes his eyes and looks away.  It’s the same explanation he told himself yesterday, and it’s not any more convincing coming from Steve.  Not like this it’s not.  When he was struggling back from the darkness over the last six months, Steve’s words were so powerful.  Now they’re just…  They’re not enough.  Bucky doesn’t know what’s more frightening: the idea that this is real somehow and some ghost is haunting him, or the belief that it’s not and he’s just losing his fucking mind because all the damage HYDRA did to him is finally catching up to him.  They’re both awful choices.

Steve’s fingers slip through Bucky’s, warm and strong, and Bucky startles.  Steve gives a sad smile.  “We don’t have to stay here.”  He sweeps his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles before pulling his hand closer.  He kisses there, tucking Bucky’s hand close, and Bucky can hardly stand it.  “We don’t.”

Bucky sighs, gathering himself enough to protest.  He doesn’t even know why.  “No, Steve.  Come on.”

“It’s not like we can’t go back,” Steve continues in a hushed tone.  “Not to rejoin the team or fight again.  That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.  I’m having some sort of…”  _Psychotic break._   “…episode, I guess, and you want the shrinks and the doctors and Wanda and Vision and whoever else to make sure I’m not fucking loony.”

“You’re not loony,” Steve responds quickly, “but you gotta admit this came on fast and sudden.  You’ve had bad nightmares before, but even I could tell the one you had last night was above and beyond the usual.”  _God almighty._ Bucky swallows down the fresh burn of bile.  “I’m just…  I’m–”

“Worried,” Bucky finishes, trying to keep the spite and irritation out of his tone.  “Yeah, I know.  What else is new, right?”  The bitterness sounds awful, even to him.  Steve watches him with forlorn, frustrated eyes.  Before he can say anything else, though, Bucky goes on.  “Ghosts ain’t real, right?  So something triggered this.  I don’t need a professional to tell me that.  I’m fucked up, Steve.  That’s not going to change just because we ran away from everything.”

Steve winces at the bluntness.  “I know that.”

“I don’t want to go back.  That’s like…”  He sighs at the circular logic here.  “Surrendering to being fucked up.”

“FUBAR, right?” Steve says with a little smile.

That eases the pain enough that Bucky can breathe easier.  “Yeah, we never surrendered then, either.”  How many times did the Commandos face a situation twisted and nonsensical and damaged beyond repair?  Fucked up beyond all recognition?  That’s how he feels this morning.  He doesn’t _recognize_ himself.  He sighs, pulling his hand free to rub his eyes.  “I don’t know.  Going back to New York feels like I can’t have this.  Like I can’t even _do_ this, which is hardly anything at all.”

“That’s not true,” Steve firmly declares.  Bucky turns to him only to see that earnest fire in his eyes.  “Sometimes picking yourself back up is the _most_ you can do.  Take it from someone who’s been knocked down a lot.”

That _is_ true.  Bucky knows it.  He’s seen Steve survive through unimaginably poor odds, struggle through more obstacles than anyone he’s ever known.  When they were kids, it seemed like that’s all Steve’s life was: struggle after struggle after struggle.  From his constant poor health to poverty to his mother’s death to bullies in back alleys to social ostracism to being told over and over again by _everyone_ that he wasn’t worth anything.  Steve never let that get to him.  That’s one of the things that drew Bucky to Steve in the first place when they were little kids who were just barely friends.  Steve has such fire inside him, such beautiful fire, and it burns so brightly that it sheds light and hope for all.

Is it any wonder he feels unworthy of that?

Steve suddenly leans closer, shifting his stool until he can get his arms around Bucky.  It feels so good and natural and familiar, and the nightmare is losing ground.  Evil always does against Steve’s power, even if it takes a while for the tides to turn in the war.  “I just don’t want to lose you again,” he says softly.  “I lost you once.  I can’t ever go through that again.  Nothing is more important to me than you and your happiness.  So if something’s wrong, I need to fix it.”

Bucky relaxes in Steve’s grip, resting his head against Steve’s.  “You can’t fix everything, Stevie.  You never could.”  _You can’t erase the past.  Can’t wash the blood from my hands.  Can’t undo what they did to me.  Can’t change what I’ve done._

_You can’t fix what I am._

Steve doesn’t answer right away.  Then there’s a warm press of soft lips to Bucky’s temple.  “Maybe not,” Steve murmurs, “but I’m never going to stop trying.  If you want to stay here, we can, but don’t feel like you _need_ to.  We can try somewhere else or go back for a while.  There are other options, you know?  It’s too soon to have done this.”

“It’s not,” Bucky returns.  “I want this.  I want it with you.  I want _you._ ”

“God, Buck, you have me.  You don’t have to worry about that.”

Bucky turns his head, and Steve’s lips are right there, and before he thinks twice they’re kissing.  It’s sweet and familiar, so far from the awful perversion he dreamed.  This feels good, healing.  When Steve pulls away, he sighs gently.  “Maybe it’s not nothing, okay?  Something triggered it, and we’ll work through it together.  We don’t have to run back to New York.  I’m sorry.”

“Christ, Steve, you shouldn’t be apologizin’ to me.”  _You have no idea what I did to you._

“Everything’ll be fine, okay?” Steve says.  “We’ll handle it.  Just another step on the road.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees on a long breath of his own.  Maybe he can believe it.  “Yeah, maybe.”

_There’s no ghost._

Steve smiles, and they kiss again, and again it’s so good, so pure and precious, that Bucky can almost forget what he’s done.

Almost.

* * *

And it almost seems like Steve _is_ right.  Maybe all of that was nothing.  It seems so unlikely, but, just as Bucky thought yesterday, it’s definitely possible.  His brain is damaged, no getting around it.  Seventy years of wiping his memories, of subjecting him to voltage levels that scarred his cerebral lobes and scorched his neural pathways, of brainwashing and programming and reprogramming…  That has left its mark beyond any doubt.  So maybe, just maybe, the things he saw and the dream he had…  _All of it_ is his own imagination torturing him.  Memories can do that.  Torment and torture, the soul’s own form of self-flagellation.  And maybe it’ll all end as suddenly and mysteriously as it began.

It helps that the house is quiet the rest of the day.  Outside it’s gone from slow, melancholic rain to pouring sheets of precipitation, so there’s really no going anywhere.  Bucky’s not too thrilled with that.  He’s still terrified of everything, every strange sound and odd shadow.  He’s tense, his stomach knotted and his skin cold and crawling with lingering panic.  There’s nothing worthy of so much upset, though.  He doesn’t see the girl again, inside the house or out.  The taut sense to the air of not being welcomed is gone, and things feel like they’ve come to feel the last few weeks.  Normal.  Quiet.  A new life that’s his – _theirs_ – for the taking.

Maybe.

By the afternoon, Bucky’s finally starting to relax.  He’s spent most of the day sticking to the entertainment room, watching TV and the rain outside, passing the time in that way you do when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Steve’s been right there beside him on the couch, but unlike yesterday, he’s keeping a bit of distance.  That’s fine with Bucky.  He’s feeling better as the nightmare recedes more and more and some hint of normalcy returns, but it seems like a predator in the shadows; if he gets so bold as to completely turn his back to it, it’ll strike.

Steve’s quiet.  They haven’t talked much.  Again, that’s just as well.  Bucky doesn’t feel like it, and any conversation is probably going to be awkward and strained.  Steve keeps glancing at him, probably checking to make sure he’s okay, that he hasn’t fallen off his goddamn rocker.  Yet _again_ it’s fine.  Bucky’s not sure he trusts his own mind and senses right now.  He sure as shit doesn’t trust himself, so having Steve watch over him while he keeps an eye out for supernatural happenings…  Well, it’s screwed up, but it’s tolerable.

Pretty soon it’s dinner time.  “What do you want?” Steve says.  He gets up and stretches, his t-shirt riding up a bit as he does and revealing a band of pale, unblemished skin just above where his jeans are hanging too low.  “Not too keen on grilling.”  He makes a face at the teeming rain.  “Or going out to get anything.”

“Whatever you want,” Bucky responds automatically.  He’s peering through the wall of rain, but with it like this, he can’t even see to the lake.

Steve puts his hands to his hips and looks down on him.  “What do _you_ want?”

Hell if Bucky knows.  “I don’t care.  You pick.”

For a moment, Steve’s just staring.  “I pick, huh?  Then I pick you make that apple thing you were all gung ho about making yesterday morning.”

Inwardly Bucky cringes with the thought.  “That apple thing?  You mean apple pie?  For God’s sake, Rogers.  What kind of an American icon are you?”

The joke doesn’t really fly.  “Hardy har, Barnes.  Come on.”

Another excuse spills out before he even thinks about it.  “It’ll take a couple hours, and that’s assuming I know what the hell I’m doing, which I don’t.”

“So?  You got something better to do tonight?”  Steve reaches a hand down to Bucky.  “We can afford to screw it up and do it again.  There’s time.  So come on.  I’ll help you.”

Bucky stares at Steve’s outstretched fingers.  Then he shifts his gaze to Steve’s face.  Steve’s clearly not going to back down from this.  Bucky’s not feeling it, to be honest.  He hardly had the motivation yesterday before all the trouble.  Now it’s even more fleeting.

However, disappointing Steve isn’t an option.  It never has been, and it definitely isn’t now.  And maybe Steve’s right.  Sitting here, fearing what’s going on inside or outside the house, or inside and outside of his head, isn’t doing anything other than depressing him and driving him crazy.  So perhaps a distraction is worth the effort and the trouble.  And maybe if they get into it, it’ll help dissipate more of the tension between them, dissolve more of Bucky’s grief and horror.

 _Maybe_ seems to be the theme of the day.

At any rate, he lets Steve pull him up, lets Steve shut off the TV, and off they go to the kitchen.  Bucky drags his feet a little as Steve prods him for the list of ingredients they’ll need for the pie crust, but Steve’s tenacious, and he keeps it light and funny.  Pretty soon they have everything they’ll need on the counter: flour, salt, sugar, and butter.  Then it’s a matter of mixing it together to make the pastry.

“You know,” Steve says as he’s working the concoction in the bowl.  Bucky’s adding cold water one tablespoon at a time.  Much to his surprise, the tannish, beige stuff coating Steve’s fingers does look like dough.  “I hear in these new-fangled modern times you can buy frozen pie crust.”

Bucky snorts.  “Right.  I don’t know who’s rolling over harder in her grave: your ma or mine.”

“Yours,” Steve decides.  “My mom was always cutting corners to save time and money.  She’d be pleased as punch not to have to make everything from scratch.  Now your ma?”  He rubs his hands together and grimaces at the gloppy, sticky mess covering them.  “She’d pitch a fit.”  Steve grins.  “Made the best cookies ever, though.”

“So that’s why you practically lived at our place,” Bucky says with a teasing smile.  “And here I thought it was me you loved.”

Steve grins back.  He does a very poor job of hiding how relieved he is at the lighthearted and familiar banter.  “Hey, I’m doing this for you, aren’t I?”  He holds up a dough-covered hand.  “If this isn’t devotion, I have no idea what is.”

“For Christ’s sake, you whiner.  Shove off.”  Bucky nudges Steve to the side with his hip and takes over kneading the dough with his real hand, using the metal one to grip the bowl.  Somehow when he envisioned becoming a pastry chef (or at least taking up baking as a hobby), it didn’t occur to him that it’s pretty hands-on and one of his hands may not take too well to sugar and icing and sticky stuff.  The thought of having to clean this shit out of the grooves of his metal hand is depressing enough that he’s going to be extra diligent in keeping it clean.  “Cut up the apples instead.”

Smiling, Steve rinses off his hands and goes to the (frankly ridiculously oversized) pantry to get the apples they bought yesterday.  He’s back in a second, carrying a bag of red and a bag of green.  Those clunk to the counter, and then he’s going to the knife block to get a paring knife.  That catches the light overhead, winking dangerously as he sets it next to the bags.  Bucky catches himself staring and then looks away, going back to his dough.

Steve starts opening the bags and rinsing off the apples.  “How many?  Peeled or no?”

“Peeled.  And I don’t know.  Maybe six of each?”

“Seems like a lot.”  But Steve pulls out what Bucky suggested.  “We’ll eat the left overs.”

“Put enough sugar and cinnamon on anything and I’ll eat it,” Bucky says.

Steve waggles his eyebrows.  “Including me?”

Everything aches inside him, a sick throbbing.  It’s all he can do not to lose it.  “Definitely including you,” he says, but he can’t manage the flirting, or a kiss, or an ass grab, or anything.  He can’t even look Steve in the eye.

And just like that, it gets awkwardly quiet again.  Steve’s peeling, dropping the skins into the sink with the garbage disposal.  The knife moves quickly, winking as its sharp edge slices the thin layer off the apples to reveal the sweet insides.  Flaying them, really.  Bucky ignores that and keeps working the dough until it’s holding its shape.  Then he makes a space on the counter and spreads some flour out.  That needs a gentler touch than he managed; between his own shittier version of the serum and the strength of his bionic arm, he gets flour all over.  Still, he gathers most of it into a thin layer over the gleaming granite surface, and he plops the wet ball of dough onto it to work it a little more.

It’s still silent, but this is better.  Steve’s peeling and cutting the apple chunks into a bowl, and Bucky’s forming the dough.  They’re standing side by side, close enough that Steve’s hip brushes his when he reaches over to toss the apple cores into the garbage.  Kneading the dough is oddly therapeutic.  Like a stress ball?  One of his therapists recommended he try that for the sensory stimulation when he’s feeling anxious or frightened or angry or basically anything at all that’s distressing.  He never took that advice, but he’s seeing now maybe he should have.  The tension fades, and he feels better by the second.

Once he has the dough to what he thinks is the right consistency (it’s all guesswork and following the directions on his phone), he bundles it up into some cling-wrap and tosses it into the refrigerator.  When he comes back to the island to start dealing with the mess, Steve takes one look at him and laughs.  “What?” Bucky asks.

“Remind me to buy you an apron.”  Bucky looks down at his black shirt, which is now quite gray with dusty flour all over the front of it.  He sniggers, wiping at it, but it’s on there thick enough that it just makes a spray.  He shakes the cotton more fully, and the plume ends up all over Steve.  “Hey!”

“You’re the one who wanted to bake,” Bucky reminds matter-of-factly.

Steve drops the knife into the bowl with his half-cut chunk of apple and reaches up to wipe at Bucky’s cheek.  “You look like a mime.”

“Oh, that’s a turn on.  And you’re sticky.”  Steve wipes his _really_ sticky hands on Bucky’s cheeks dramatically, and Bucky groans and pushes him back, only Steve’s pulling him with until Bucky’s practically pinning him against the island.  They kiss again, hotter, wetter, and this feels good, too.  It’s not too hard to ignore all that darkness now.  It’s distant and quiet, and Steve’s obviously been sneaking some of the proceeds from his task because he tastes sweet like apples and his lips are a little sticky, too.  Bucky likes that, grabbing onto the loops of Steve’s jeans to haul him in even closer.  It seems a little rough, a little thrilling, but even that doesn’t bring the hell back.  He can be demanding with Steve.  Steve can be demanding with him.  It’s about passion and fun and want, not about power and domination.  That’s the way it always has been.

And Steve seems to like it, pushing back just enough that Bucky can feel him getting hard through his jeans where he’s got his knee slotted between Steve’s legs.  He can’t stop a little moan at the thought of it.  Maybe…  Maybe this _is_ what he needs.  What he dreamed last night was born from frustration, and he needs to resolve it, to let Steve make him feel good, to make Steve feel good.  To get back that easy, sweet intimacy between them.  Maybe…

Steve’s phone vibrates in his front pocket.  That slight interruption kills the momentum, and Steve’s pulling away from their deep kiss and Bucky’s tentatively exploring hands to get the device out.  For a second Bucky thinks he’s going to toss it on the counter and go back to what they were doing, but he doesn’t.  “I gotta take this,” he says with an apologetic wince.  “Don’t go anywhere.”

With that, Steve’s thumbing at the screen and lifting the phone to his ear and quickly walking out of the kitchen, and Bucky’s left hurt and aching and uncertain at the island.  He sighs shakily, turning around.

“Hello?  Hi, Sam.”  Steve’s out in the hallway.  He always seems to forget that Bucky’s hearing is as advanced as his own is, if not more so from his years of practice as a sniper and assassin, so Bucky can still make out his end of the conversation even though it’s muffled.  And of course he’s contacted Sam.  Of course.  He probably did it earlier in the day while Bucky was staring like a fucking catatonic zombie out the window.  Angry, Bucky fishes the paring knife out of the bowl and the piece of apple Steve didn’t finish cutting.  “Yeah, he’s doing okay, I guess.  Moody.  Withdrawn.”  There’s a pause.  Bucky slices.  He fucking _hates_ it when people talk about him like he’s not there.  Never mind how he felt before, that he’s so broken he should be taken care of like this.  Right now, it’s like poison killing happiness.  “I don’t know, Sam.  I have no idea.  He – yeah.  Yeah, I get that.  I tried to tell him, but he doesn’t want to come back.”

There’s another pause.  The paring knife is very sharp, easily passing through the fleshy insides of the apple.  Bucky cuts the pieces small.  “He says he thinks he saw someone, but I don’t know if…  No.  Actually, is Wanda there?  Maybe she might have some ideas.”  A pause yet again.  Bucky can practically imagine Sam’s voice, always so damn calm and level-headed.  The knife cuts faster and faster.  Steve sighs.  “I’d like to get him back there, but I can’t…  He wants to stay here, Sam.  I can’t make his decisions for him.  And he’s okay right now, I think.  I think.  But, fuck, I’m worried.”

Something splatters on the top of Bucky’s head.  Startled, he looks up.  There’s water running across the smooth plasterboard of the ceiling.  A massive wet spot mars the pristine white of it maybe a foot away, and the liquid is following some invisible contour until it’s right over Bucky.  Then it drips.  “What the hell?” Bucky whispers as another splash hits his nose.  That has to be their bathroom above here.  Christ, did he leave the sink or tub running?

But as he watches, the drips get faster, less sporadic.  They hit his hair, his shirt.  Water’s saturating the ceiling, spreading like a damp shadow across it.  Spreading faster than seems possible.  One of the drops strikes his flesh and blood hand where it’s holding the paring knife, and it’s _warm._

Shocked, he looks down and sees it’s blood.  _Oh, God…_   Steve’s conversation with Sam falls away, muted and distant.  Bucky can’t follow it anymore because his heart’s back to booming between his ears and his brain can’t think again.  He watches the fat splotch of blood spread over his hand.  Others join it, dripping down in a red rain, and soon his hand is covered, and it’s running down over the knife and into the bowl.  The apples seem to shrivel as the vessel fills with water and blood.  They wither until they’re gone completely, as if they’ve been dissolved away, and all that remains is a pool of ruby red.

And Bucky’s reflection.  No, it’s not right.  The face mask is there again.  The kohl-rimmed eyes.  They’re empty.  Dead.  _The Winter Soldier’s reflection._

He gasps.

“It’s alright for now, I think.  No reason to come running up here.  If he says he’s okay, I have to believe him.  I trust him.  He deserves that.  So I’ll just…  Yeah, I’ll be in touch.  Right now I’m just gonna stay put and keep a close eye, but if things change, I’ll be calling.  Yeah.  Yeah, don’t worry.  I’m fine.  Alright, talk to you soon, Sam.  Bye.”

The sound of Steve ending his call and coming back into the kitchen has yanked Bucky from staring into the bowl.  Steve’s right there, pocketing his phone and strolling back toward him with a huge smile that implicitly states volumes of the fact that _he doesn’t see anything wrong._   “Did you finish the apples?”

_You have your orders, soldier._

Something inside him, shifts, twists, _breaks_ , and he’s charging across the kitchen.  He’s grabbing Steve by the throat with his metal hand.  Steve’s not prepared _at all_ , flailing as Bucky mercilessly squeezes and shoves him back.  He slams into the built-in stainless-steel refrigerator, denting the door, and belatedly he tries to get his hands up to protect himself.  It’s too late.

Bucky shoves him back even harder, driving his knee into Steve’s midriff, pinning him.  The metal hand lets go of Steve’s neck to ram his skull back with enough force to crush.  Steve slumps.  Smoothly the knife is traded from the flesh fingers to the metal ones, and Bucky slaps his free hand over Steve’s mouth to muffle his cries and wrench his head to the side.  “You think you see me.  You think you know me.  You don’t know fucking thing!”  Steve whimpers, helplessly trapped.  “You should _know better_ …”  Bucky trails the sharp tip of the knife down the side of Steve’s neck, the sinister caress drifting lower to his chest and stomach.  The hatred comes out of nowhere inside him, boiling up like acid, like pure, molten _malice._   The words come again in a seething hiss.  “You should know better than to trust me.”

Steve’s eyes widen in terror, but there’s nothing he can do.  He screams behind Bucky’s hand as the knife goes in.  And in.  And _in._   His abdomen and his chest and his side.  Bucky stabs savagely, wildly, with no precision or restraint.  He doesn’t stop, and blood falls, covers his hand, covers him and Steve both, and hot wetness splatters all over his palm as Steve chokes and gurgles, and Steve’s going limp against him, _but he doesn’t stop_ , stabbing and stabbing and _stabbing_ –

“Yeah.  Yeah, don’t worry.  I’m fine.  Alright, talk to you soon, Sam.  Bye.”

Steve’s quiet voice is like a siren.  Bucky snaps out of it and finds himself still at the island, still staring into the bowl, only there are just apple pieces there.  The paring knife is in his hand, but neither it nor his skin is covered in blood.  There’s no water dripping.  He looks up to see the ceiling is dry and clear and just as it should be.  Then he turns around, but the fridge is fine, too, not dented from where he drove Steve’s body into it.  _There’s no blood._   Nothing terrifying or disturbing or even out of the ordinary.

All of that, the rage and Steve’s muffled screaming and the feel of the knife cutting through Steve’s body as he thrusted it in and yanked it out and skin was punctured and muscle was sliced and blood spilled and spilled, so thick in the air he can still _taste it…_

“Bucky?”

He doesn’t say anything.  He can’t.   He drops the knife, which he’s been clenching so tightly that his fingers are aching, into the bowl with a clank.  Then he’s walking away.  More than walking.  Staggering.  Running.  _I can’t._

“Bucky?  Bucky, wait!  What’s – Bucky!”

_I can’t!_

Right outside the kitchen, she’s there.  She’s there like she’s waiting for him, dripping her water and her blood, glaring her silent condemnation, and he’s too scared to cry as he darts past her and rushes down the hallway.

She doesn’t let him go.  The house feels like it’s shaking, shuddering, twisting around him, grabbing him and dragging him back.  It’s dizzying, nauseating.  The vertigo dumps him to the floor.

It’s not the vertigo, though.  It’s Steve.  Steve who’s covered in blood, who’s thrown him off, who’s hit him hard finally, who’s stumbling out into the hallway.  There are huge smears of red everywhere, on the floors and walls and counters in the kitchen.  A trail behind Steve, and he’s dragging his left leg because of the deep wounds in his thigh.  Bucky knows a man’s anatomy, knows he’s bleeding out thanks to damage to the femoral artery.  Wounds litter his body, red splotches staining his shirt and jeans.  And there’s internal damage.  So much of it.  Blood, thick and deeply red and viscous, is dripping from Steve’s mouth as he coughs and staggers.  Runs.

Or tries to.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t tolerate his targets fighting back.  His handlers have instilled into him the need for efficiency, for silence, for stealth.  This, however, is none of that.  The frustration roars again, and Bucky climbs back to his feet.  Steve’s too wounded to go anywhere, even if he does have his feet beneath him.  The hallway stretches out, and the walls…  They look like they’re melting, wavy and glistening and distorted.  But it’s not an illusion.  It’s just water.  _Water._

_The house is crying._

Bucky stalks after his target.  His victim.  It takes nothing to grab Steve’s arm, to swing him around and throw him into the wall.  The wall shakes, drips, and blood splatters, mixes with the rain. Steve collapses with a cry, kicking weakly at him where he’s still holding his wrist.  “Don’t fight me,” Bucky snarls.

_Please don’t make me do this._

Still Steve struggles, and without any hesitation, Bucky breaks his arm.  The scream Steve lets loose is nothing short of agonized.  His breath fails him, his voice cutting off.  He shudders, collapses completely, and goes limp against the floor.

Water is filling the hallway, running in a deluge from the ceiling.  The house is flooding.  The splashes and splatters are deafening.  Bucky circles his fallen prey, leaving wet footprints on the wood floors.  Steve’s still breathing.  Somehow, he’s still alive.  He’s still living.  He won’t die.

_He won’t die._

_Unacceptable.  Complete your mission._ Bucky grabs both his broken arm and his other one, gripping his wrists firmly, and drags him towards the stairs.  _Finish him._

_No!_

Bucky gasps, shakes himself free from this thing inside him and all around him, and when he looks again, finally gets his eyes open and his senses gathered and his mind _focused,_ he’s in the hallway.  He tripped over the rug that’s there, tripped and went down hard, and there’s no water.  No blood.  No ghost.

Just Steve, who’s falling to his knees at his side, racing to help him.  He’s fine.  Not hurt at all.  Neither broken nor bleeding.  Not at all at Bucky’s mercy.  He’s just pale and frantic and worried.  “Bucky, God, what happened?  Are you okay?  Are you–”

“Don’t touch me!”  Bucky’s shaking so hard that standing feels impossible, but he does.  He has to get away.  He has to stop this.  “Just don’t touch me!”

“Bucky–”

 _“Don’t touch me!”_ he screams, and then he’s running, tearing towards the steps as fast as he can.  _Running away,_ because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.  What he may do.

What he’ll do to Steve.

Steve’s still shouting after him, chasing after him no doubt, but he doesn’t slow, sprinting toward the massive staircase and vaulting up it.  Then he’s tearing down the hallway upstairs.  He doesn’t know where he’s going.  It’s not as if their bedroom is any safer.  For God’s sake, what happened there last night…

Before he even thinks twice, he’s bolting into one of the other bedrooms, into the one Steve said could be _his_ space.  There’s nothing there, nothing but new carpet and a closet that’s empty and windows that show the dark, rainy evening.  He slams the door behind him and locks it.  Like a lock can keep a fucking _ghost_ from tormenting him.  Like it can even stop her from getting in.

It’s stopping Steve, though.  Bucky backs up into the middle of the room.  “Bucky?” Steve calls through the door. The knob jingles and turns as Steve tries it.  “Bucky, are you okay?”

“Go away!” Bucky cries, his voice breaking as he does.  God, this is hell.  He’s in hell.  He’s trapped in this, and there’s no way out.  The room feels like it’s collapsing, and the sound of the rain is damning.  “Leave!”

Steve knocks on the door, jiggling the knob more and more, and it’s stupid as hell because he can get in if he wants.  He can break that door down without trying.  Part of Bucky hopes he does, because he’s so scared.  He feels like he’s trapped in his body, trapped in his mind, only it’s not his mind or his body anymore.

_You sure about that?_

He sobs.  He wants Steve.  Steve’s strength and comfort and love and faith.  Steve’s purity,  undaunted and undamaged no matter what.  Steve, _grounding_ him in reality.  He _needs_ Steve.

But Steve absolutely _cannot_ come in.  “Bucky, please…”  Even muffled, the fear in Steve’s voice is beyond obvious.  “What’s wrong?  Darling, please…”

“You gotta stay away!” Bucky shouts.

“Let me in,” Steve begs.  “Bucky, please let me in.”  Bucky’s brain is shivering in his skull, throbbing, and his nerves are twinging inside him.  He grabs at his hair, pulling, squeezing.  “Bucky?  Did you – did you see something again?  Did something happen?”  Bucky can’t answer.  He can still taste the blood, smell it, feel its sick heat on him.  He can still feel Steve’s body against his, under him, hurt and sobbing and suffering.  It’s so real, so visceral and strong and undeniable, and reality keeps bending and blending.  “Bucky, talk to me!”

“Stay away!”

“Why?”  The door rattles.  “Why?”

_“Because I’ll hurt you!”_

His ragged, desperate shout seems to echo.  Then everything goes silent.  Even the rain seems quieter.  Bucky’s harsh breathing slows in the relative peace.  Tears bathe his cheeks, and he raises his hands, his _own_ hands that are clean of blood and fearfully shaking, to wipe the wetness away.  “I’ll hurt you,” he whispers again.

There’s no answer.  Worse, though, there’s no _denial_.

For a long time, it’s silent.  Utterly and completely, like the house is holding its breath.  Then a thud resounds.  It’s Steve, leaning wearily into the door.  “Okay,” he finally murmurs through the wood.  His voice is heavy with defeat.  “Okay, I’ll just…  I’m going to stay out here, okay?  Right out here.  Whenever you’re ready to come out, I’ll be here.”  There’s more shuffling and another soft thud.  Bucky closes his eyes, picturing Steve sitting just outside the room, probably leaning into the door, probably crying if the sound of his voice is any indication.  Desperate and confused and scared and _hurt_.  No matter what, Bucky can’t seem to stop himself from doing that.

“I’m staying right here, Buck.  I promise.  I love you.”

Bucky can’t say anything.  All he can do is crawl into the corner and tuck his body tightly into itself. All he can feel is the weight of countless horrors pushing him down.  All he can taste are his tears.  All he can hear is the rain.

And all he can think is if he opens that door, the Winter Soldier is going to finish his mission.

* * *

The night’s endless.

He doesn’t sleep.  He’s too afraid to.  Instead he stays huddled in the corner of the room, as far from the door to the hallway as he can get as if the physical distance is some sort of insurance that he’ll stay away from Steve.  Thankfully, Steve does his part and stays outside the door.  Bucky knows he’s still there.  He can almost _feel_ him across the dozen feet and through the wood. 

And, of course, Steve keeps talking to him, because Steve’s a stubborn bastard who never gives up, especially when it comes to him.  “Bucky, are you okay?”  Bucky closes his eyes every time Steve asks him that, and he asks and asks and asks, like a goddamn broken record.  “Bucky, answer me…  Please, sweetheart…”  And Bucky’s frankly a grade A, absolutely vile asshole for not answering, for _never_ answering, but he doesn’t because Steve’s questions are almost insipid for how stupid they are.  He’s _not_ okay.  Maybe he’s never been okay, not since fucking 1943 and he was living in secret with his best guy in a tiny tenement in Brooklyn.  “Bucky, God…  Tell me what happened.  Tell me what to do.”Most of all he doesn’t answer because he’s afraid that acknowledging Steve will destroy this stalemate between him and the violence inside him.  He clings to the relative peace, holds tight to it, and the seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and Steve never leaves.  He promised he wouldn’t, and he doesn’t.  There are periods where he gets quiet, long moments where he loses hope, but he doesn’t quit.  Steve _never_ quits.

“Bucky, please talk to me.”  The concern in Steve’s voice is even more overwhelming.  Frantic, even.  He’s terrified in a way Bucky has never heard before, and it’s because of him.  _I’m a fucking bastard.  A rat-faced coward.  A goddamn traitor._   Bucky doesn’t say any of that.  He just sits there, knees to his chest, fat tears rolling steadily and silently down his cheeks.  “Bucky, please…  Let me take you back home.”

_This is home._

“It doesn’t have to be for good, just…  Something’s not right.  I know there’s more going on here.  If you’re seeing things like this, hallucinating this bad…  That’s serious.  Please.”

_No._

“Let’s just make sure it’s not something more serious, Buck.  We need to be sure.  The doctors need to look at you.  Please?  Let’s go home.”

_This is home!_

“Bucky…  I’m scared.  Please, _please_ talk to me.”

He can’t.  He’s scared, too.  He’s scared if even so much as opens his mouth, the monster inside him will take over the words.  He’s scared if even so much as interacts with Steve or acknowledges him at all, the monster will fly out of the shadows and hurt him again.  Rape him and beat him and kill him.  Why is he dreaming these heinous, awful things?  Why is he imagining them?

_You know why._

There’s knock against the door.  Clenched anger and frustration.  Fear.  Steve’s hand, uselessly banging.  “Why are you doing this?” Steve whispers.  “Let me help you, Bucky…  Please let me in…”

_Let him in.  Let him see what you truly are._

Bucky squeezes at his skull harder and harder, like the pressure can force the madness out of him.  This evil voice, twisting his thoughts and driving the impulses.  That never used to be there.  When HYDRA had him, it wasn’t like this.  He wasn’t allowed to feel or want or be _satisfied._

_You have your orders, soldier._

Steve doesn’t speak again for a while.  Bucky doesn’t know if he’s still there.  He’s probably gone off to call Sam again, to get Wanda’s advice on what to do, to arrange to have him fucking committed like the psychopath he is.  The anger and bitterness rankles the monster again.  _He thinks you’re crazy.  Broken.  Weak.  Treats you like a baby.  Don’t let him get away with that._

“Shut up,” Bucky hisses, clenching his eyes shut and pushing at his temples.  He wonders if it’s possible for him to crush his own skull.  The errant thought spirals, loosens other thoughts and drags them with it.  Slamming Steve’s head into the refrigerator.  Striking him in bed and holding him down.  Straddling him and hitting and hitting and _hitting._   “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

_Not until you complete your mission._

“Bucky?”

_“Shut up!”_

The rain hisses.  Lightning flashes.  Thunder.  Something drips on his head.  Water.  It’s dribbling into his hair, clumping the strands, slipping down his face.  He’s wet with it.  _No, no, no…_   There are smears of something on the sides of his head, on his cheeks where his hands are.  He pulls his fingers down and stares at them.  “Please, no…”

 _Blood._   Endless blood on his hands.  Maybe it’s his own.  He truly did damage himself, ripped his own hair out or busted his brains in.  That’d be a small mercy.

But that’s not it.  _No.  Not again._   He can’t stop it.  He blinks, and when his eyes open, he’s walking.  He’s dragging something – someone – _Steve._   Dragging him by his arms, leaving blood everywhere.  Dragging him down this long, dark passage.  There’s light at the end.  Mist.

_What?_

Then there’s a flash of a body in water.  Steve’s body.  He’s struggling, and bloody water is splashing everywhere, but Bucky’s got the metal hand around his throat and his other hand on his face and his weight on his chest.  He’s not going anywhere.

Nowhere but beneath the water.  He’s drowning.

“You’re my mission,” Bucky hisses, and forces Steve down deeper and holds him there until his struggles cease, until his body is convulsing with the last, desperate throes of life.  _You’re Steve.  You’re my partner.  You’re my best friend.  You’re my lover.  You’re the best part of me._

Not anymore.

With a cry, Bucky forces the vision away.  Now there’s the room again, this dark, shadowy cell with its soft, plush carpet and one empty closet.  And the sealed oak door.  Over the ringing in his ears, he hears Steve calling for him from behind it.  “Bucky?  What’s happening?  What?  Bucky!  God, I’m gonna break the damn door down!  Come on!”  The knob rattles.  “Bucky!”

Bucky can’t focus on that.  He’s trembling, breathing in shallow, rapid pants, shaking his head against the lies.  There’s a part of him that _knows_ that.   _It’s all a lie.  It’s not real.  You wouldn’t.  You couldn’t hurt Steve.  You saved Steve.  You saved him._

But he can’t even have that.  The second the memory flies into his mind – _jumping down into the river and seeing Steve’s body sinking into the shadowy murk and reaching down his metal hand to catch him, to grab him, to save him and pull him to the surface_ – it turns into a perversion of reality.  He reaches down for Steve’s hand, but it’s too late, and the darkness swallows him whole.  Steve drowns.  And that would never have happened if Bucky hadn’t shot him and beat him within an inch of his life in the first place.

Even when he tries to do good, he does evil.

_That’s what you are.  Evil._

“No,” he moans weakly.  Against the onslaught of anguish, he shakes his head.  “That’s not true.  It’s not true!”

“What’s not true, Buck?  What’s happening?”

The house shivers, quakes.  _She’s_ here, and he can feel it in the very depths of him.  She’s here, and she wants him. That’s the only explanation.  She wants him to hurt, to kill, but he’s not succumbing this time.  The darkness inside is rising, swelling like a flooding river against a dam, just like the water’s rising in the room.  It’s dripping from the ceiling, running down the walls, soaking the carpet, soaking through his socks and his pants, but he doesn’t move.  It’s cold and awful, but he’s still and firm.  He can’t go through this again.  He didn’t rape Steve.  He didn’t stab Steve.  He’s _not_ going to do whatever she wants.  He’s going to stay here, _right fucking here_ , and this house can fall down around him for all he cares.  The rain can drown _him_.  She can tug inside him all she wants, torture and torment him.  He’s not fucking moving.

_You have your orders, soldier._

“No.”  He grits his teeth, tastes blood again, smells it.  “No!”  The door shakes.  It’s trying to open.  He clutches the carpet, digging his fingers into the sopping fibers as if they’ll anchor him.  He’s not going.  “Stay the fuck away from me!  I’m not doing it!  I’m not!”

“Bucky?”

The deluge continues.  The room fills, and he can hardly hear over the pounding of the rain.  “Leave me alone,” he moans.  Tears drip from his face into the water.  The door is bending now, buckling, the wood moaning and splintering against the force behind it.  Water seeps in through the cracks and gaps.  Bucky watches in horror.  “Stay away!  You can’t fucking make me do this!  I won’t!”

“Bucky, please let me in!”

“I won’t do it.  I won’t do it!”

“Bucky!”

“I’ll never hurt him for you!  Do you hear me?  _Never!”_

The door bursts open, but Steve’s not there.  Instead it’s a wall of water, and it’s pouring inside with a huge splash.  It seems almost like it’s happening in some sort of grotesque slow motion, but it’s not.  Bucky has no time to get a breath as it rushes toward him, bowls him over and drives him into the wall, traps him there with crushing, pulverizing force.  Water blasts into his eyes and mouth, down his throat and into his lungs.  His head smacks back into the wall, and everything goes dark.

He feels like he’s floating, dying, and it’s nice.  Peaceful.  Maybe this will be the time he closes his eyes and doesn’t wake up.  Lord knows he’s wished for that before, to fade away completely.  Maybe this will be the time God finally takes His pity.

It’s not.  He remembers.

A door was slammed shut, and he opened his eyes.  He’d been dozing in their old chair, the one whose batting was squished flat and with the broken leg that they’d replaced with a couple of textbooks.  At the noise he leaned forward, blinking to focus, and saw Steve stalking across the parlor toward the bedroom in their old tenement.  Of course, _stalked_ was something of a misnomer, given how badly he was limping.  Concern immediately ratcheted up inside Bucky.  _Not again._   _“Steve?”_ he called, pushing himself up out of the chair.  He was tired and sore himself from a rough day at work, but the sight of Steve shuffling and, yeah, bruised and beaten up, was enough to drive him.  It always was.  _“Stevie?  Jesus Christ…  What–”_

  _“Leave it,”_ Steve snapped.  He was already digging in the ice box, but he glanced over his shoulder at Bucky in warning.  That was enough for Bucky to see how bad his face was.  His lips and chin were covered in red.  His nose looked broken or close to it.  His left eye was inflamed, swollen, the early manifestations of what would become a hell of a shiner.  There was blood and dirt streaked in his hair.  His jacket’s ripped, shirt filthy and spotted with red, and he was bent, the tell-tale sign of busted up ribs.

 _“Aw, fuck,”_ Bucky snarled when he saw it was serious.  He was across the slight distance to the kitchen before he even thought twice.  Anger boiled up inside him, the same anger he always had for the scum of this neighborhood, of the earth, the bad people who that treated Steve Rogers like their personal punching bag.  _“Who the fuck was it this time?”_

 _“Nobody,”_ Steve lowly seethed.  Bucky saw now his hand was all messed up, knuckles scrapped to hell, of course, from punching back, but his wrist was swollen and when he tried to get the ice, he just dropped it and it ended up all over the floor.  _“Damn it!”_

Bucky forced himself to calm down.  Steve was usually quieter and more solemn and accepting when he got the snot beaten out of him like this, but this time he was obviously upset.  Teetering on the edge of something.  It wouldn’t do for them both to be all riled up.  _“Okay, easy.  Easy.”_ Bucky grasped Steve’s trembling hands and steadied them.  Then he crouched and grabbed the chunk of ice.  Rinsing it a bit in the sink, he wrapped it up in an old, clean rag.  _“Take it easy, sweetheart.”_

 _“Don’t fucking call me that!”_ Steve cried, and he snatched the rag from Bucky’s hands.  _“I’m not your girl!  I’m not!  I’m not some weak…”_   But he tipped, sagged, stumbled, and Bucky lurched forward to catch him.

The ice went right back to the floor, breaking this time into smaller pieces, and Steve clutched Bucky’s clothes as he gasped a sob into his shoulder.  He was getting blood and grime all over his best shirt, but Bucky didn’t care.  He just threaded his hands through Steve’s hair carefully, subtly probing for injuries as he did.  _“’course you’re not my girl.  And you’re not weak.  You’re stronger than most everyone I know.  You know that.”_

 _“’m not,”_ Steve grumbled, fire sputtering out.  Now he was swinging the other way towards miserable self-deprecation.

_“You are.  What’d they say that’s got you so bothered?”_

Steve hesitated.  _“Nothin’.”_

That was a crock of shit if Bucky ever heard one.  He peeled Steve away from him.  Steve blinked wearily, his face blotchy and scrunched up in pain.  Jesus, they did a number on him.  _“Come on.”_

It felt like he’d done this a thousand times, Bucky helping Steve walk or outright carrying him to their bedroom where the bigger boy could inspect and tend to his wounds better.  Steve got into a lot of fights; his heart was far too large for his body, and he could never ignore injustice, not even when it was clearly in his best interests to do so.  He didn’t go out looking for trouble by any means, but trouble sure as shit found him, and he never spared a thought in his dumb punk head for himself.  The bullies loved him for that.  He was easy pickings.

And Bucky couldn’t be there every time to protect him.  Truth be told, he hated himself for that almost as much as he hated the assholes who did this to Steve.  Bad guys would always be bad guys, but he could do something to keep Steve safe and well-guarded.  Inwardly fuming, he carefully sat Steve down on their bed and went to gather what he needed.  He’d done this so many times that he was able to go fast and fairly automatically, getting more ice, some rags and water, and their little tin full of Sarah’s old first aid supplies.  Bandages and witch hazel and scissors and other things.  He came back and found Steve hunched over, tears dripping from his face.  It was a rare sight to see Steve cry.  Sighing, he knelt in front of the other boy, tenderly stroking his knobby knees before sliding his hands up and down his thighs in a comforting rub.  He could practically cup Steve’s entire leg in his hand it was so skinny.  _“Stevie, come on.  You gotta let me look at ya, make sure they didn’t hurt you too bad.”_   He had a feeling Steve’s heart and pride were far more bruised than his body, and his body looked rough.  _“And you gotta tell me what’s wrong.”_

Steve winced as Bucky took more ice and wrapped it up before pressing it to his swelling face.  He took Steve’s less damaged hand and put it there to hold the compress in place.  Steve didn’t say anything.  Of course not.  Steve could be so intensely private, refusing to bleed on anyone let alone someone he cared about.  Bucky eased Steve’s suspenders down, which was slow and painful, and then he started in on the buttons of Steve’s rumpled, stained shirt.  _“Did they say something about you?”_

 _“They’re always saying shit about me,”_ Steve finally muttered.  _“This time they decided to include you, too.”_

That made Bucky stop.  He looked up at Steve, at his teary, furious eyes.  His gut clenched hard.  _“What’d they say about me?”_

Steve hesitated, but he answered.  _“They said you were an invert.”_   Bucky’s anger seized up inside him.Not that it wasn’t true, mind, but because it was being used to hurt Steve.  To hurt them both.  Steve went on.  _“Said you were stupid, too, because even being a fairy you got choices, and you chose me, and I’m sick and small and fucking useless…  And you always gotta watch out for me.”_   He sighed shakily.  _“They said other rotten things, too.  Couldn’t stand there and take it.  Couldn’t–”_

 _“Shhh.”_   Bucky didn’t need to hear anything more.  He leaned up, wrapped Steve up in his arms.  _“God, you’re not useless.  And those guys ain’t worth the air they breathe.”_

 _“Can’t even defend you,”_ Steve moaned into Bucky’s shoulder.  _“They laughed about it when it was done, said I’d come back here, and you’d have to – to take care of–”_

 _“Stop,”_ Bucky hushed.  _“It’s not true.”_

 _“It is!”_   Steve pulled away, and despite his hurts, he pushed Bucky off and stood.  Bucky let him.  He could have overpowered him, made him stay down where he wouldn’t aggravate his wounds so much, but forcing Steve into anything right now was repulsive.  _“I’m here like this, aren’t I?  And you’re doing what you always do.”_

 _“I am,”_ Bucky said, rising too, _“because I love you, not because I have to.  And because I promised your ma.”_

 _“That doesn’t make me feel better,”_ Steve seethed.  _“Mom made you promise to look out for me?  Fuck, Bucky, that’s–”_

 _“–not what she said,”_ Bucky finished.  Steve’s mother had passed away just a couple months back, and the grief was still fresh for both of them.  _“She made me promise to stay with you.  To be with you.  Not to take care of you.  I do_ that _because I love you.”_   He said that slower, clearer, annunciating each syllable like the clarity could force understanding into Steve.  He cupped Steve’s face, mindful of the bruises, and pressed closer.  _“I take care of you, and you take care of me.”_

Steve’s expression crumpled in shame.  _“Couldn’t even do that!  Don’t you get it?  They’re throwing shade at you, and I couldn’t even set ’em right.  Couldn’t defend you.  Couldn’t do nothing.  I’m useless.”_

 _“You’re here,”_ Bucky corrected.  _“And that’s all I need.”_   Steve winced and shook his head, but it wasn’t so emphatic now.  Bucky stroked his cheeks.  “ _And I know you, Steve.  I know you got a couple of good shots in.”_

That made Steve smile faintly.  _“Maybe.”_

 _“Yeah, I know you did.  You got a mean right hook, Rogers.”_ The little grin got bigger, pulling at Steve’s sore lips.  Bucky sighed gently, kissing Steve’s forehead before tugging him back into his arms.  _“You save me all the time.  Every morning when you wake up and smile at me.  Every time you greet me when I walk through the door.  Every time you do the right thing, no matter how much trouble it causes us.  You remind me that life can be good.”_

_“God, Bucky…”_

_“I could spend the rest of my life taking care of you, and it’d never be enough to repay you for what you do for me every damn day.  They think you’re weak?  Useless?  They don’t know anything.  You at your absolute worst is worth more than every single one of them at their very best.”_ Steve shivered and wrestled with a sob.  Bucky sighed and held him tight, rubbing his back, closing his eyes.  _“No getting into fights to protect my honor.  Fuck my honor.  It’s not worth you getting hurt.  We handle everything together, and that includes taking on all the bad shit in the world.  You got it?”_

Steve never answered.

So Bucky opens his eyes.  It’s pitch black.  For a while he doesn’t know where he is, but then his brain lethargically jitters into activity, and he recognizes the ceiling of the empty bedroom.  He’s lying flat on his back in the corner beneath the windows.  The carpet is plush and soft beneath him, and he curls his fingers into it.  Not much light is coming through the blinds behind him.

And the house is utterly silent.

He sits up, sore and suffering, blinking away tears that were trapped.  He’s dry.  Of course he is.  The door is intact and closed.  Of course it is.  And everything is still and peaceful.  Just the way it should be, with no sign of anything wrong.

_Of course._

For what feels like forever, Bucky just sits there, reeling, wondering what’s happened.  It’s the middle of the night, has to be the middle of the night.  How long has he been here?  Was he sleeping?  Where’s Steve?

_Steve._

He’s almost lurching for the door before he remembers to stop himself.  All his ardent desperation to stay away from Steve abruptly rolls over him, and he’s slowly standing in the middle of the empty room, trembling and barely breathing.  He listens, straining his ears for any sound at all, but all there is the hushed whisper of precipitation against the roof.  Bucky’s eyes are fixated on the door, and his heart starts pounding.  Is Steve still out there?  Maybe he fell asleep, too.  Maybe it’s okay now.  Maybe…

His fear and anxiety overwhelm him, and he’s calling out.  He can’t help himself.  His voice is hardly more than a questioning murmur.  “Steve?”  There’s no answer.  At the bottom of the door there’s the faintest sliver of light, barely anything, but enough to be fairly certain there’s no one sitting or lying right outside.  That heightens his worry.  He swallows through a tight throat, taking one slow step forward.  Christ, everything had to be another nightmare, so Steve’s out there.

Right?

“Stevie?” Bucky calls again, a little louder and more firmly.  “Stevie, are you there?”

A horrific scream pierces the silence.  It’s muffled by the closed door and the walls of the room, but it’s still so loud.  Bucky startles, backpedals, looks around frenetically.  That’s Steve’s voice.  He’d recognize it _anywhere._   It’s Steve’s voice, and Steve’s screaming.

_Steve’s screaming._

For just a second, he wonders if he imagined it or if this is another trick of his fucked-up mind, another hallucination or bad dream springing to life to torture him anew.  But the scream echoes again, long and deep, and it pretty quickly erodes his ability to doubt or even reason.  Steve’s in pain, in a lot pain, and he screams until his voice breaks in a sob.  It’s coming from outside, but other than that, Bucky doesn’t know where.  Somewhere in the house.  Steve wails again, even louder, even hoarser.  More agonized and desperate.  It’s wordless, just a keening howl of absolute misery, but Bucky can only interpret it as a scream _for him._

Somewhere in this house someone is hurting Steve.

The shock holds Bucky prisoner a second longer, like his feet have been rooted to the floor.  Then he’s breaking free and stumbling forward, making for the door.  He has to get to Steve.  He has to save him, to help him, to stop this and _God who’s hurting him what happened I shouldn’t have left him out there I shouldn’t have fuck fuck fuck–_

But he stops.  _He stops._

What if it’s a trick?

The thought’s like a bolt of lightning arcing across his brain and shooting through his limbs.  _What if it’s a trick?  She’s trying to lure you out, to get you back out there to hurt Steve.  She’s fucking doing this.  It’s a fucking trap.  She’s doing it to get to you._

It’s working.  _It’s fucking well working._

Bucky gasps a choked-off sob.  From down on the first floor – it _sounds_ like it’s coming from the first floor – Steve wails again.  There are breathy words mixed up in this one.  Bucky can’t make them out before Steve’s voice twists and escalates into a raw, loud, throaty cry.  He doesn’t need to understand what Steve said to know what he’s doing.  He’s begging.  Pleading for mercy.  Whoever’s hurting him doesn’t oblige him, and Steve’s next screams are as awful and anguished as the ones before it.  They come faster, harsher, a barrage of misery, and Bucky cringes and screams softly himself.  He covers his ears, twists at his hair, paces.  “Fuck, please…  Please, stop…”

It doesn’t stop.  Steve’s screaming and screaming and _screaming_.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Bucky begs between mounting hysterical sobs.  His eyes burn, and his stomach is clenched into a nauseated knot, and the dark room spins as he panics.  He stumbles toward the door and then backs off and then staggers to the window and then throws his head back in despair.  “Stop this.  Stop!  Leave him alone!”

She doesn’t.  She’s using Steve, using him like fucking bait, and no matter how much he tells himself that, that this _has to be a trick_ , Bucky can’t accept it.  No matter how much _he knows it’s not real,_ he can’t believe it.  Steve’s voice is broken now, choking off before he can even scream properly, like his strength and endurance are failing him.  Like he’s giving up.  Like it’s near the end for him.

Bucky can’t stand it.  He’s a selfish bastard.  A fucking coward.  Steve’s hurt, and he’s too frightened to help him.  Too goddamn _weak_.  It’s like torture, listening to this.  Like madness.  Like the substance of his soul is being ripped to shreds and he’s a helpless observer in his own destruction.  “Please, stop…  Leave him alone.  Leave him alone!”  Steve’s voice rises again, a helpless, suffering scream reverberating through the house as if it’s just to spite him.  Bucky wails himself.  _“Leave him alone!”_

It goes starkly silent.  Just like that, it’s done.  Bucky’s eyes are wide and he’s panting and weeping.  Shaking.  Standing still and listening, but there’s nothing to hear but the ever-present rain.  Is it over?  Maybe…  Maybe she gave up.

But no.

There’s a thud.  It, too, is dulled by the closed door.  Bucky jerks all the same, trembling even harder.  Another thud comes.  And another.  They’re heavy, even, and in their wake, there’s a loud swish, like… like clothes and skin rubbing across something.  _Footsteps._   They’re coming up the stairs.  Down the hallway.  And something – someone – being dragged.

That realization leaves Bucky wide-eyed and utterly terrified.  He watches that slit between the door and the floor.  The thuds get louder, closer still, until the light shifts outside, is blotted out by someone in front of the door.  Whoever it is, the person doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, just plods right past the room.  And whoever the figure’s dragging…  Bucky watches, utterly paralyzed, as the swishing and rubbing and clunking goes right by the door.  There’s a familiar groan.  It’s barely more than a brutalized whimper.  _Steve._   “No…” Bucky whispers.  _It’s my job to protect him.  To make sure he’s safe.  I need to make sure._   The footsteps get quieter again as the figure moves down the hall, dragging Steve with it.  _I have to help him.  I have to stop this.  I have to save him.  I promised his mother.  I gave her my word._

_Stay with Steve, she said.  I’ve fucking failed her over and over again._

_Coward._

“No,” he moans to himself, to the voice inside him feeding him these _lies._   “No.”  He’s _not_ a coward.  Not here.  Not now.

_You sure about that?_

“Leave me alone!”

And then he’s moving, charging to the door, yanking it open.  Outside, the hallway is dark and shadowy and filled with steam.  The walls are weeping again, and there’s blood on the floor, a long stripe of it that leads to their bedroom.

_The bedroom._

Bucky stands there, staring down the way.  The house is silent again.  Even the rain is quiet now, and all he can hear is his own heart pounding, his own shallow breaths.  Terror almost drives him back into the room, but he goes forward, his feet soft and silent on the hardwoods.  Lightly and slowly he steps around the blood, creeping down the hallway.  Their bedroom door is half open, and he pauses there, too frightened to go inside.  But he has to.  _He has to._

So he does.  And inside he sees their bed, swathed in shadows and covered in blood that looks black.  There’s a huge stain of it right where Steve slept last night.  He turns away quickly, horrified.  _It didn’t happen.  It never happened.  I didn’t hurt him.  I wouldn’t wouldn’t wouldn’t–_

_Felt good, didn’t it?_

He squeezes his eyes shut against the voice.  Over the roar of his pulse, he can hear the shower running and see that the mist is drifting from the bathroom.  This door, too, is slightly ajar, and lights are on inside.  It takes a great deal of courage, but he tentatively takes one step closer.  Then another.  And another.  He reaches for the door to open it wider.

Metal fingers grab the door before he can and pushes it.  Metal fingers that aren’t his.  Bucky stands stock still, watching in shock, in a queer, unbreakable stasis, as _he_ walks out of the bathroom.

Not him, though. 

_The Winter Soldier._

The soldier’s combat boots thud against the floor.  It’s that same gait as before, the same cadence to the steps.  He’s dressed in his full tactical gear, and Bucky can almost remember how it feels, coarse and heavy and constrictive, like a prison all its own.  The soldier’s eyes are gray.  They’re full of malice, of unhinged violence, windows to a dark, tainted soul that are curtained by stringy brown hair and ringed in coal.  He’s got the black face mask on, and there’s blood and water splattered on it.  His glare narrows as he pushes by Bucky.  Other than that, he takes no heed at all, stalking out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and back out into the hallway.

Bucky watches _himself_ walk away. 

It’s unreal.

When the soldier is gone, he finds it within himself to draw in a tiny breath.  He turns back to the bathroom.  Whatever lays beyond there, inside there…  It’s the end.  The culmination.  Somehow he knows this.  And he knows it’s going to be horrific, but that recognition doesn’t settle into him, not truly.  So he takes a step again.  And another.  _And another._

Inside, the lights are hazy through the mist.  The shower is still running like it’s been forgotten.  The curtain is ripped.  There are smashed tiles, and the mirror is broken.  A struggle.  A fight.  The bathtub is full from the shower, so full in fact that water is rapidly spilling out of it, running over the sides to spread all over the floor.  The clear liquid is tinged pink, and there’s blood on the tiles too, starkly red against the once pristine white.  Bucky winces as water soaks into his socks.  He comes closer, though.  He’s come this far.  He has to see.  Inch by inch, he reaches the side of the tub and looks down into the basin.

The water is ruddy, brownish and reddish and pinkish in different intensities, and there’s a body floating in there beneath the surface.  It’s Steve.  He _knew_ it would be, but seeing it is somehow still so devastating.  Blood’s leaking out of him everywhere.  His left shoulder.  His right thigh.  His stomach.  All over his chest.  _All over him._   He’s been stabbed and sliced and mutilated.  His lips are parted, but there’s no bubbles of breath from between them, just a dribble of red that’s darker near its source before becoming diluted in the water.  His eyes are wide open, glazed blue staring sightlessly up at Bucky.

He’s dead.  Stabbed, beaten, and drowned.

_Murdered._

Bucky doesn’t understand.  What is this?  Why is he seeing it?  He didn’t do it.  He could _never_ do it.  He knows that.  So why is this happening?

_Because you belong to HYDRA, Sergeant Barnes._

The voice hisses that, and it doesn’t sound like it’s inside him this time.  He whirls, and she’s there in the door again, wet and glaring at him.  “What do you want from me?” he cries at her.

She points, though not at Steve’s body or at Bucky himself.  No, her pale, shriveled finger directs him to a place on the floor not far from his feet, where the water spreading from the overflowing tub strikes a smear of blood.  When the water touches it, drags it in such a way that the red splotch is pulled, reshaped, and what it makes…  That’s not natural.

It’s an _M_ , written with hard, jutting angles, only the letter has a little line on the left side of it and another on the right that goes back up like a check mark.  Bucky stares in alarm as it forms, unmistakable against the white tile.  It’s as clear as day and striking.  _M._

What the hell does that have to do with anything?

He looks back up at her, at her ferocious glare, and it’s clear she can tell he doesn’t understand.  That only makes her angrier, and she opens her mouth, screams.  It sounds strange, its high pitch dampened like he’s hearing it under water, but it makes everything blur wetly, hurt, _throb,_ and the room pitches, Bucky hits the bathroom floor hard, his head smacking into the tile.  Water splashes, and the last thing he sees is the bottom of her nightgown, her wet feet, as she walks away from him.

* * *

_“You okay, Buck?”_

They were lying in their bed in their apartment.  It’s one of those memories, the ones that really stick out to him though there’s nothing particularly special or interesting about it.  This was a night like any other, late, and the city was quiet.  Their building was quiet, too.  The autumn night was chilly, rain dripping outside softly, but they were cocooned in their few nicer blankets, warm and cozy and shielded from the damp chill.  He can’t remember if they’d just made love or if they were about to, but Steve was pliant and naked and soft in his arms, and he was drifting in his thoughts, floating, content in a way he hasn’t been since these nice days.  He smiled up at their peeling ceiling.  _“Yeah, Stevie.  ’m real good.”_

Steve propped himself up on his elbow, blue eyes like sapphires in the shadows.  _“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”_

Bucky remembers running his fingers up Steve’s skinny arm, marveling at the deceptive strength in his slight muscles.  He remembers brushing his thumb over Steve’s plush lips.  _“That I can’t be happier than I am right now,”_ he murmured.  Steve smiled, nipping at the fleshy pad prodding between his lips.  _“That if I never have anything else in this life worth anything, I have this.  I can live on this.”_

 _“Can you?”_ Steve whispered with a bit of a sly smile.  He settled back down, pulling Bucky’s hand to securely wrap Bucky’s arm around himself.

Bucky’s understanding more now.  It’s a cold, rainy night in November, 1942.  In a couple days, Bucky will get his conscription notice, and everything will change, but for this moment, they’re blissfully ignorant of the rocky, tumultuous, and dangerous times ahead.  Bucky ran his fingers up Steve’s knobby, crooked spine, tracing every vertebra.  He had them all memorized, how they felt, which ones were not quite aligned, which seemed bonier and which were softer.  He can still remember it, even if Steve’s back is fixed and straight now.  _“’Course I can.  Don’t need anything more than this shithole as long as you’re in it.”_

 _“Such a romantic,”_ Steve teased.

“ _And I don’t need someone’s blessing to love you.”_

 _“Not your parents’?”_ Steve probably meant that to be teasing too, but it came out soft and serious.  _“Not God’s?”_

Bucky shrugged.  _“Don’t care what He thinks,”_ he boldly declared.  _“If He’s cruel enough to call being with someone as beautiful and pure as you a sin, then He’s no God of mine.”_

_“You sure about that?”_

He wasn’t, of course.  He just went on.  _“And my folks?  They’ll come around someday.”_   Not that his folks knew about their relationship.  Not strictly.  And not that they would approve or tolerate it, even if they knew.  Sarah Rogers, God rest her soul, was the only person who’d ever seen the truth, and in her eyes, anyone who loved her son was worthy of her love and acceptance in return, no matter what form that love took.  Bucky smiled as he thought about her, her fiery strength and calm determination and knowing eyes.  _“You know what the irony about it is?”_

 _“Hmm,”_ Steve hummed, kissing his chest and settling down drowsily.  _“What’s that?”_

_“All these people…  I can hear it now, how sad and pitiful it is, that the two of us will die like a couple of old bachelors.  Never married a nice dame.  Never had kids.  Never done nothing worthwhile except working for a wage.  All these people…  They’re shaking their heads and clucking their tongues and staring all disapproving-like and all that, and they’ll never realize that all the while, we’ve been living the greatest love story ever.”_

_“If they’re not realizing we’re queer, they’re blind,”_ Steve joked.

Bucky grunted.  _“Love is love, and I love you, Steve.  And I’m not ever letting you go.”_   He pressed a kiss into Steve’s mussed, floppy hair.  _“Never.”_

Steve went quiet, and the soft song of the rain got louder and louder and more discordant.  _“I love you, too,”_ he finally whispered.  A touch of fear crawled into his voice, and his long fingers clutched Bucky’s hip.  _“They can’t tear us apart, can they?”_

 _“Nope.”_   God, if he only knew then what he knows now…  _“You’re stuck with me, Rogers.  For better or worse.”_   Steve laughed before burrowing his face into Bucky’s shoulder, relieved.  _“This is who I am, who I want to be, and nothing can change that.”_

They didn’t speak again for a while, and the _ting ting ting_ of the raindrops striking the gutters and fire escape gets louder and harsher.  Steve shivers.  _“Rain’s getting worse.”_

Bucky gasps and opens his eyes.

He’s back in the empty bedroom.  It’s morning, early morning, but there’s light at least, gray illumination spilling in through the blinds.  Bucky winces as he sits up, his back protesting and pretty much sore everywhere.  He wipes at his crusty eyes and takes a deep, trembling breath before looking around more carefully.  No water.  No blood.  Nothing but the perfect cream-colored new carpet, the freshly painted walls, and the empty closet.  Seconds slip away, and they do so without trouble.  Again, the house has settled.  It’s quiet, calm and peaceful, and he doesn’t think it’s a façade.

Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet and takes stock of himself.  His head’s hurting, throbbing with a dull ache behind his eyes, but other than that, he seems alright.  He swallows down the stale taste of vomit in his mouth, gathering his composure bit by bit.  He’s still not sure what was a nightmare, what he hallucinated, and what could be… _real._

_Steve._

Without another moment’s hesitation, he’s running to the door.  Assuming none of that horrible shit actually happened – _it couldn’t have happened!_ – there’s a good possibility Steve will be right out in the hallway, sleeping maybe, having passed out during his vigil.  He kept a vigil, didn’t he?  So he wouldn’t have left Bucky to that hell alone.  He wouldn’t have.

But he’s not there.  The door creaks open, revealing nothing but shining hardwoods and smooth cream walls.  There’s no sign of anything, no indication anyone’s been there.  Bucky swallows through a dry throat, and his pulse picks up again.  Cautiously he steps out into the hallway, looking around in complete disorientation.  _Where…_   Down the way, the door to their bedroom is ajar.  The memories from the night before are sharp and fresh, and shame over how much of a fucking coward he was bubbles up inside him, but he doesn’t let that stop him this time.  Quietly he heads down there and grasps the door.  It’s with his metal hand, and he winces at the image, but he pulls the door open all the same.

Morning light is spilling through the blinds that line the bank of windows around the turret.  Through the French doors, he can see the deck is extremely wet, puddles of shiny water lining the planks, and there are sodden leaves plastered onto the wood everywhere, splashes of bright yellow and orange and green.  Farther down, the lake is glassy and serene.  The trees are still, too.  It’s not really raining anymore, which is nice, but it looks cold and unpleasant outside.

Bucky sighs as he spots the bed.  It’s mostly in relief but also in admonition for himself, because Steve’s fine.  He’s there on his side, sound asleep.  The clock on the night table declares that it’s just barely after seven o’clock, and after the night they had, it makes sense that Steve’s out.  He looks okay.  He’s still dressed in yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt, which are both seriously rumpled.  His feet are bare and somewhat burrowed in the quilt.  He didn’t bother to cover himself with the bedding any further than that.  His hair’s a mess, and there are tear tracks on his cheeks.  Fresh ones.  He hasn’t been sleeping for long.

That low-level feeling of utter, wretched guilt bursts inside of Bucky’s chest like a bomb going off.  _God._   What the hell has he done?  Acting like… like such a fucking bastard?  Crazy off his ass, practically psychotic…  This is the worst break with reality he’s had since Steve brought him back from Bucharest, and he’s reeling with how far he’s fallen.  And, Christ, he wants to climb in bed with Steve, to snuggle up close to him, to feel his solid warmth and familiar comfort.  He wants to kiss those tears off his face and tell him he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to scare him or worry him or hurt him, that he didn’t mean any of this, that he’s _okay._

But that last thing’s a lie, and he can’t force down the fear, the feeling that he’ll hurt Steve if he gets too close.  It’s lingering and pervasive.  So he doesn’t come any closer, at least not beyond pulling the duvet from where it’s clumped by Steve’s feet up and so that it covers him instead.  Steve doesn’t stir, thank God.  He deserves some peace and quiet, some rest after all that.

Feeling increasingly disgusted with himself, Bucky strips off his sweaty clothes and puts on a pair of fresh jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.  He changes his socks, finds his shoes, and gets them on.  He cleans himself up like a robot, detaching completely from anything other than the methodical act of getting his teeth brushed and his hair untangled.  He’s not looking at the tile where the blood was, where the water spilled over.  He is not going to look at the tub where Steve…  _No._ And he _absolutely_ is not going to look at himself in the mirror.  No fucking way.

Determined, he escapes without seeing his reflection.  That’s a minor miracle.  He doesn’t see _her_ anywhere either, and the house seems safe and sedate for the moment.  Sighing, he makes his way out of bathroom.  Steve’s still sleeping.  Again he hasn’t so much as stirred, and Bucky creeps past the bed and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

As weird and hazy as everything felt yesterday morning, this morning it’s a million times worse.  His last images of the house were of a hell he never imagined he could see, so finding things normal is pretty jarring.  It’s a drastically alarming dichotomy, what he remembers contrasted with what is.  Quietly, slowly, he creeps through the hallways and down the steps, testing the waters in a way, to see if she’ll let him move around.  She does.

He makes his way into the kitchen with a shred more aplomb.  The mess from the aborted apple pie is still there; Steve never cleaned it up after the episode last evening.  The bowl of cut-up apples is sitting on the island.  Bucky glances inside before he can stop himself.  The paring knife is in there, along with a mound of wilted, drying, browning apples, but no blood.  Exhaling slowly, he gets what he came for.

His phone.

It’s right where he left it yesterday, when he was using it to look up the recipe for pie crust.  He’s out of the kitchen in a flash, barreling out of the doors to the patio.  He closes them behind him, thumbing through his contacts and making the call before he thinks twice.  The air is so cold and wet that it hurts a little to breathe it, and Bucky sniffles as he holds the phone to his ear.  He shrugs deeper into his sweatshirt, pulling the hood up and stuffing his flesh and blood hand in his pocket to keep it warm.  The line’s ringing.  And ringing.  And _ringing._

There’s no answer.

Irritated, he loses his nerve and ends the call before he has the chance to leave a message.  Pocketing his phone, he sighs heavily.  As chilly and damp and generally crappy as it is out here, it is nice to be out of the house.  He heads across the patio, his sneakers getting wet as he does.  He stands there and beholds the trees, the lawn, the lake.  The sullen, swollen clouds.  He can taste the rain in the air.  The world doesn’t look or feel the same, not that he can describe how it’s different.  It’s just… _not right._   Like he knows something he shouldn’t know, that he didn’t know before, and now that he knows it, he can’t feel the same about anything.

He’s just not sure what _it_ is.

His phone rings.  The shrill sound startles him.  “Fuck,” he grumbles, annoyed with himself, as he fishes the vibrating device back out.  It’s Wanda calling him back.  He feels simultaneously embarrassed to high heaven and excited.  “Hello?”

“James,” comes Wanda’s accented voice over the speaker.  There’s concern there, and she’s not doing a damn thing to hide it.  Of all the other Avengers, Bucky’s the closest with her.  They have an understanding, and not just because Wanda’s been helping Bucky erase the triggers HYDRA put in his mind.  She, too, was experimented upon.  She’s been turned into something different, something dangerous.  And she served evil when she aided Baron von Strucker, when she aided Ultron, so she knows what it’s like to have blood on her hands.  “Are you alright?  What’s going on?  Steve called Sam yesterday, but he never called back last night, and Sam’s worried sick about you guys.  I don’t blame him, to be honest.”

Bucky sighs.  He rubs his right hand over his face again.  “Yeah, we’re okay,” he answers.  It’s almost automatic, and he stops himself with another long breath.  “No.  I – I don’t know.”

“What’s happening?”

He’s come this far.  He called her _to_ tell her about what’s been going on, so chickening out now seems just plain stupid.  He knows she won’t judge him for it; if anyone understands how fucked up his mind is, it’s her.  She’s been inside it, seen his darkest demons, helped him tame them.  So he makes himself talk even though it’s frightening and embarrassing as all hell.  “I’m seeing things.”

There’s a pause.  The condemnation or doubt he fears isn’t coming.  “What are you seeing?”

He tells her.  It’s too hard to go into much detail, but he gets the basics out more or less.  She doesn’t need to know the awfulness of it, what he’s imagined he’s done to the one and only person he’s ever loved, what a sick, perverted son of a bitch that makes him.  When she presses about these waking nightmares he’s having or whatever the fuck they are, he skirts it and lies about the particulars.  She can probably tell he’s not being honest, but he doesn’t care.  He talks about the things he’s with which he’s more (as in slightly more) comfortable.  About _her._   About what she looks like.  About how he’s sure she’s dead, and that he killed her.  About how the girl seems to be in the house, how she’s invaded everything he loves and knows.  She’s the key.  What he’s been forced to do to Steve in his dreams isn’t.

Wanda’s silent when he’s done, which only serves to heighten his anxiety more.  Then she evenly asks, “Is there anything else in particular that sticks out?”

Besides a soaking wet, bleeding girl in a nightgown who’s apparently haunting his new home?  “The last time, when…  when it ended and Steve was…”  Bucky closes his eyes.  He can picture it so clearly.  “At the end there was an M on the floor.  She wanted me to see that.”

“An M?”

“The letter M.”

“You think that means something?”

He doesn’t have a clue.  “I don’t know.  It sure doesn’t right now.”  Again, the phone is quiet.  Bucky’s grimaces, looking out over the pristine yard and the calm lake beyond.  It feels false, forced, a lie concealing something dark and dangerous.  “Am I…”  He can’t hardly think it.  “Am I losing my mind?  What the hell’s wrong with me?”

Once more, Wanda doesn’t answer right away.  Bucky can’t breathe while he waits.  Finally, she sighs. “If you want me to assure you that it’s impossible for you to be imagining this, I can’t.  There are secrets in your mind, painful things you’ve locked away, memories lying in wait…  You know they’re there.”  He does.  That’s the darkness.  He never looks into it.  “Things may come back to you randomly and without warning.  Or perhaps something did trigger it.”  He’s been over this in his head, over it with Steve.  “Then again,” Wanda continues after another beat, “if you were to tell me ghosts were real…  Well, I’d believe it.”

Bucky finally exhales.  He’s been over this, too, but that feels like acceptance.  “Yeah.”

“What does Steve think?”

He glances back to the house.  “He thinks we should come back to the complex,” Bucky says.

“And you don’t want to?”

 _It’s not that simple._   “I know I should,” he concedes, “but I feel like…  I don’t know.  Like I need to know what this is.  Need to make sense of it.  Like I owe myself that much.  I owe Steve that and more.”  He pushes his hair behind his ear.  Even with the hood on, it’s gone damp in the light, misty drizzle.  “That’s stupid, but I can’t help it.”  Yet _again_ , Wanda doesn’t respond immediately.  Bucky can’t stand the quiet as it goes on.  “Wanda, what do I do?”

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly.  He can practically picture her pretty eyes, tense with confusion and hesitation.  “I’m not sure I’m the best person to advise you, even if I did know what to say.  But…”

“What?”

“Well, I guess…  What are the choices here?  The possible explanations?  Either you’re imagining these things, or…”  He can practically feel her shaking her head.  “Or it’s real.  In either case, it seems to me someone’s trying to tell you something.”

“Someone?”

“Your brain,” Wanda says, “trying to let something out that needs to get out.  Or she’s trying to communicate with you somehow.”

“I wouldn’t call it communication,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice level.  “More like retribution.”

He can almost hear her frown.  “Regardless, maybe the answer is to confront it, rather than run from it.”

“Confront it?”

“Try and figure it out,” Wanda clarifies.  “Let the memory speak.  Or try to understand what this is about.  Or come home and let the people here help you.  I don’t know, James.”  She sighs in surrender.  “I’m not much help.  I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Bucky says, a sudden tickle of confidence working its way through him.  “No, that’s a good idea.  Figure it out.  Yeah, I can try that.”

“You can?”

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t have the slightest clue _how_ he’s going to do that, but it’s a start.  Wanda’s absolutely right.  Either everything is in his head or this ghost is somehow real and haunting him, but in either case, maybe understanding what this is about will bring an end to it.  Or at least help.  At the _very_ least, it makes him feel useful, like there’s _something_ he can do to combat how his life’s fallen apart in the last two days.  Up until now he’s been a useless observer, trapped in his own head and body.  _No more._ “Yeah, I’m gonna try.  I’ll call you back in a bit.”

Wanda’s not sure.  That’s painfully obvious.  “Don’t forget to.  We’re…  We’re worried.”

He’s too engrossed in his thoughts to be upset about that.  “I know.  I will.  Bye.”  He hangs up with her.   Then he’s darting back in the house, resolved and pointedly ignoring everything but his jacket by the front door and the car keys resting on the little table there.  He snatches those up and takes his coat before running out the front and down the porch into the driveway.  He half expected the ghost would stop him, keep him trapped in the house, but she doesn’t, and now he’s free.

He doesn’t let himself be surprised or relieved.  He just hops in the SUV and turns it on.  Without a second of delay, he’s throwing the car into drive and speeding around the cul de sac of their driveway and racing down toward the woods and the little hill.  He probably shouldn’t be rushing off like this without telling Steve; he’ll be scared shitless if he wakes up to find Bucky mysteriously gone.  Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he fumbles to send Steve a text as he drives down (probably a little like a maniac – how many times has Steve told him not to text and drive?).  _“Going out for a bit.  Back soon.”_

Just as he’s about to hit send, he looks back up and sees John and brakes hard.  The old man is walking with his cane on the side of the road, dressed in a rain slicker.  Bucky’s not that close at all, but John glares all the same as Bucky slows down to a crawl and gives him a wide berth.  He glares like he expected to see Bucky there, and Buck feels a chill wrack over him as he passes.  Swallowing the ache in this throat, he finishes with his text and heads down the way.

Leaves are falling all over, heavy with rain.  Bucky turns on the wipers as he reaches the bottom of the long drive.  The little gray house is there, set back from the road, surrounded by bright yellow and gold but somehow dark and uninviting.  Bucky stares at that a second, too, before figuring out how to activate the GPS and navigation guidance on his phone.  There has to be a library in this town somewhere.

That seems a good place as any to start investigating.

* * *

For being a relatively small, touristy place, Lodin has a very nice library.  Bucky finds it without too much trouble.  Even though he ends up waiting almost an hour for the public building to open, when it does he stupidly almost runs in without remembering to cover his metal hand.  His gloves are missing from his coat pocket, but thankfully Steve has a spare pair in the glovebox.  With them on, he heads into the building.

Being in a strange place with strange people usually ramps up his anxiety something fierce, but today, after the last forty-eight hours of hell and craziness, it’s nice and some solace to be around others.  It’s protection, as weird as that is.  If she did follow him from the house, maybe she won’t try anything here.  Of course, it’s just plum stupid to take that conclusion as meaningful; what the hell does he know about how ghosts operate?  Let alone _this_ ghost?  And wasn’t there a scene in some movie with some ghostbusting scientists or something being attacked by a phantom librarian in the stacks…

Regardless, it’s easy to stay focused on what he came here to do.  He makes his way to the front desk, trying to recall from his youth how to use a library.  For God’s sake, how much can it have changed in seventy years?

A lot apparently.  The nice young woman running the desk looks up at him and smiles sweetly as he asks about finding old, local newspapers.  She doesn’t seem to recognize him (thank God) and goes on to say that most of what the library has was converted from microfilm to PDF, not that he knows or cares about what that means.  She takes him to a computer room that’s empty except for one other person who’s surfing the internet with a bird-watching book open beside him.  She sits Bucky down at one of the computers, which is so massively weak and outdated compared to what he’s used to given his previous stay at the Avengers complex.  Tony would flip out over the idea of one of his friends using a _desktop._   Still, once he’s logged on and she’s showing him the archives, he figures he can make this work.  Maybe he could have done this back at the house with Steve’s laptop or that fancy new art tablet he bought or even his phone, but he can see right away that it’ll be easier to search with almost a hundred years of local newspaper articles right at his proverbial fingertips.

Not that it does him much good.  Nearly an hour into his hunt he realizes the sad fact is he has no idea what he’s looking _for._ The only thing he knows for sure is that he – the Winter Soldier – killed this girl.  That doesn’t mean he killed her _here._   That’d be a hell of a coincidence, even more implausible and unbelievable than a ghost haunting him.  Applying logic to this illogical situation seems crazy, but some things don’t make sense and can’t be explained by slapping the label of creepy onto it.  He and Steve randomly chose this location to retire, the same location where he was sent on a mission to murder a young woman?  That’s too hard to swallow.  And even though the house feels like it’s in on this strangeness, again, what are the odds that he killed her in it?  Really low.  He thinks it has to be more likely that she’s haunting _him,_ not the area, and she has poisoned everything so that it feels like it’s against him, including their home.  Especially their home.

He can’t believe he’s actually trying to reason this out.

At any rate, removing the house and the town from the equation doesn’t leave him much to go on.  It also occurs to him that he may have better luck having Tony hunt through the SHIELD data dump than here.  All of HYDRA’s secrets were revealed when SHIELD collapsed, so having someone investigate at the source seems ludicrously obvious.  However, he’s loath to involve anyone else at this point, especially Stark.  His past involvement with Tony’s parents’ deaths is so fresh that having him hunt down information regarding another victim of the Winter Soldier seems shamefully inappropriate.  Furthermore, it’s not like Bucky has terribly specific search parameters to give him.  _Look up young women HYDRA wanted dead between 1945 and, oh, say, two years ago.  Brown hair.  Blue eyes.  Name may start with an M?  Can’t tell you more than that._

Then again, how many possibilities can there be?  The fact that he can’t answer that is a tad distressing.  He doesn’t want to find out.  _One horror at a time._   So he sticks to the here and now, to this girl and whatever happened to her.  He checks through the missing persons lists for Vermont, but they unfortunately don’t go back as far as he wants, not digitally anyway.  None of the pictures he can see jump out at him either, and even the ones he thinks are possibility don’t have first or last names that begin with an M.  That’s an assumption, of course, but he doesn’t know what else to do with that information.  Once he’s exhausted that list, he starts in with the local paper, looks back as far as he can for stories concerning missing or murdered girls.  Again, there’s nothing that seems likely to be related.  Lodin’s a tourist town, though.  Is it possible she could have been a visitor?  He doesn’t know.  And, of course, all of this is assuming that whatever he did to her _made_ the news.  HYDRA did a damn good job most of the time hiding his activities.  They trained him to be discreet.

Which again has him teetering on the edge of calling Tony.  Even with the paltry facts he has, it may be enough for FRIDAY or whatever Tony’s calling his AI nowadays to find some connection.  Bucky still stubbornly refuses to let himself go there, though.  Not yet.  Not even if it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.  And it is.  Hours go by with nothing to show for them.

Then he wonders if he’s going about this the wrong way.  Obviously John, whoever he is, is connected with the ghost.  That _can’t_ be a coincidence, that they showed up together that first day.  And there was that upsetting sensation of John being familiar.  That’s also not likely to be random.  With all that in mind, Bucky gives up on his wild goose chase for her and focuses on him instead, looking back through the PDFs of the town papers for stories or announcements or _anything_ concerning a man named John.  There are hits, of course.  Over the course of decades with a name that common, there are tons of matches.  Obituaries and birth announcements.  Articles.  Pictures, though none of them look like the John in question.  Not knowing his last name is making this rather difficult.  He doesn’t know if John Anderson who owned the hardware store in the 1960s or John Landers who runs one of the most popular bed and breakfast establishments in the area or John Greary who was a World War II vet and has recently passed away may be _this_ John.  He doesn’t think so, but there’s no way to tell.  Hell, there’s no way to be sure that _John_ is real.  Steve saw him that first day, so that suggests he is, but right now everything is suspect.

Plus his efforts to research the house and land Steve bought or the house John owns hit a wall.  The library really doesn’t have much information about those specific properties, though there is some on the region’s initial settlers and such.  To get more detailed information, he needs to go to the county clerk’s office, so says the librarian.  He’s not ready to do that just yet, although finding out who owns that little shack where John lives would probably be a huge help.  If his name is on the title or deed, any legal documentation at all really, that’d be invaluable.  He tries running what he can through Google, but he doesn’t even know the house’s address.  He uses his and Steve’s address to try and bring information up, but there’s nothing useful.  “Old man John who owns the little gray shack in the woods at the bottom of the hill” is, unsurprisingly, not specific enough.

And, _again,_ Bucky is sure Tony can help with this.  Tie what little he knows about John with what little he knows about her and maybe something will come up.  After hitting dead end after dead end and spending most the morning running in frustrated circles, he leans back in his chair and wonders what the hell he’s doing.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.  He pulls it out and finds it’s Wanda calling (and that it’s been almost three hours since he got here so it’s mid-morning now).  It’s probably rude to take the call in the library, but there’s no one in the room with him anymore, so he does but keeps his voice hushed.  “Hello?”

“James?  Are you alright?”

He sighs and rubs his bleary, aching eyes.  “I’m okay.  What’s up?”

“I tried calling Steve, but he wasn’t answering.  I hope you don’t think I overstepped my bounds, but I, um…  I was thinking about your situation,” Wanda confesses.  “And I was wondering.  Is there anything strange about the M?  Other than it being a random M.”

Bucky glances around warily, but no one’s come in.  Despite that, he hunches protectively down onto the desk.  “It’s just an M, I guess.  Why do you ask?”

“Well, if I was screwing with someone’s mind, I don’t think I’d go so vague?  I don’t know.  An M could mean anything.  Unless it’s her name.”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky declares.  His search thus far doesn’t come close to ruling that out, but he has this feeling he can’t explain.  It’s gotten stronger since he’s started thinking about it, since he’s wracked his brain just a bit for more memories surrounding this girl.  It’s a gut inclination, not anything substantive, but he’s inclined to believe it.  “I think the M stands for something else.”

“Right,” Wanda says, seemingly satisfied that he agrees.  “If she’s trying to tell you something, she’s banking on you recognizing it.  So back to my question: was there anything odd about it that you noticed?  Anything at all?”

 _Aside from the fact it was written in Steve’s blood?_   Shoving that bitter thought aside, he considers it for a moment.  “Yeah, I guess.  It had some… extra pieces?”

“Some extra pieces?”

“Yeah.  Stylized or something.  Artsy?  I have no idea.  I’m terrible with this stuff.  Was even before HYDRA wiped my brain.”  Bucky sighs.  “Steve would probably know.”

Wanda quietly contemplates.  “Any way you could draw it and send me a picture?”

Now that’s a thought.  “Yeah, hold on.”  Bucky looks around, at first suspiciously again, but there’s still no one there, so he gets up and snatches a piece of paper out of the recycling bin near the back table where the printer is.  There’s a pencil at the unoccupied desk behind him, which he borrows.  Then he’s sitting back down, trading the phone to left hand, and sketching what he remembers.  It’s still pretty vivid, though he’s not sure if that’s because of his own version of the serum or the traumatic circumstances.  In any case, in no time at all he has it drawn.  Then he snaps a picture of it with his phone and texts it to Wanda.

“Okay, I got it,” Wanda declares.  The power of modern technology never ceases to amaze him, and in the matter of a few seconds, she’s rendering her verdict.  “James, that’s not an M.”

Confusion has him squinting and frowning at his sketch, though Wanda can’t see him.  “It’s not?”

“No.  It’s the symbol for Scorpio.”

That gives him pause.  An uncomfortable weight settles in the pit of his stomach, and he feels cold.  The word…  It’s disturbingly familiar.  “Scorpio?”

“Yes.  The zodiac sign?  The constellation?  I used to play at these sorts of things when I was a girl.”  She gives a slight, embarrassed chuckle.  “Pietro told me I was wasting my time on it, but I always knew it’d come in handy.”  Bucky doesn’t answer, sinking deeper into something very dark.  “James?”

“Wanda, I need to talk to Tony right away,” Bucky says softly, worriedly.

She pauses, clearly concerned.  “O-okay.  Why?  What’s the matter?”

He’s already bringing up images of Scorpio on Google, and there’s the M that’s not an M.  It’s everywhere, right in front of him, and when he blinks, he sees it written in blood.  Written in red.  Written all over the tops of documents and outside of laboratories and offices.  Written right next to the red cephalopod and skull of HYDRA.  “I need him to confirm something, because if this is what I think it is…”

“What you think it is?  What is it?”

Bucky closes his eyes.  “Evil.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight: Baron von Strucker was not the first HYDRA asshole to turn young volunteers into wizards and witches, but without all the charm of Hogwarts and a whole lot less voluntary.”

Bucky sighs.  The problem with bringing Tony in on anything is that it invariably turns into a snark fest full of pop culture references he can’t follow.  The man’s a certifiable genius; he’s smarter than anyone Bucky’s ever known, smarter than his father even, but he runs his mouth constantly.  Those days where Tony (begrudgingly at first) redesigned and built him a new arm were among the noisiest and most annoying of Bucky’s life.  The guy means well, but he can’t shut up.  Ever.

Like now, for instance.  Tony’s sending a massive collection of files from the SHIELD data dump to Bucky’s phone and chattering incessantly while doing it.  It probably would be easier to look at all this stuff (gigabytes of files, apparently) on a computer, but he didn’t feel at all safe doing that at the library.  Or anywhere, come to think of it.  Tony’s voice cuts over the car’s audio system where he sits parked in a quiet, woodsy nook just off the winding road that leads back to their house.  “I don’t know why I’m surprised, though.  It’s fucking HYDRA.”

“Tony,” Sam gently admonishes.  Apparently this has turned into a team event.  Bucky can’t see them but he can picture it, the group of them huddled around one of the high-tech computer terminals in Tony’s lab.  Now all of them are party to how fucking crazy he’s become.

Although he’s starting to believe more and more that _none_ of this is simply his imagination.

“What?” Tony asks.  Now his voice gets harder and more troubled.  “It doesn’t bother you that every time we think we’ve hit the end of HYDRA’s evil legacy, there’s always more fuckery to uncover?  It sure as shit bothers me.”

“This is ancient history,” Sam returns.  “The people who ran this program…  They’re all dead.”

 _Not entirely.  Not me._   Not that Bucky _ran_ it, but he sure as hell had a hand in securing HYDRA’s test subjects.  Now that he’s made the connection, _remembered_ Scorpio and all it was, it’s flooding out of him.  Flashes of the chair, of being given missions.  _Find them.  Bring them back._   His handlers’ stern eyes and commanding voices.  The triggers words that forced him to comply.  This was relatively early in his captivity, before HYDRA had perfected its methods of reprogramming him and forcing him into submission.  He remembers fighting the restraints, fighting their hands, _fighting._

_You have your orders, soldier._

His orders.  To kidnap people HYDRA identified as candidates for their Scorpio program, HYDRA’s attempt to harness preternatural powers in humanity.  After the rogue science division’s epic failure with replicating the super soldier program (and Johann Schmidt’s humiliating defeat at the hands of Captain America), its leaders opted to diversify its assets and goals.  Bucky’s looking through the documents now on his phone, and it’s like slipping in and out of a nightmare.  He’s scanning countless images of old memos and letters and logs.  Lab reports.  Mission testimonies.  These things seem vaguely familiar, like a half-remembered dream.  This was one of the first programs Zola ran from within SHIELD, one of his earliest endeavors to strengthen HYDRA and recapture its former power.  At this point in time after World War II, with increasing evidence that superhuman enhancement could be created and may already exist, SHIELD had already begun identifying and cataloging “persons of interest” worldwide.  These were individuals with strange or unexplainable powers.  Zola stole the information and took it to HYDRA where the group lay quiet and seemingly dormant, and the Winter Soldier had been sent to bring these people in for testing. 

 _Dozens_ of them over the span of nearly ten years, from the late 1940s after the war ended until the late 1950s.  Bucky looks through the old, grainy pictures of the people forced into the program.  Some of them stir some memories – _apartment buildings homes schools cities farms docks screaming bullets fire blood begging_ – but he doesn’t give them purchase inside him.  He can’t.  Instead he focuses, closes his heart off, and studies picture after picture.  He’s looking for _her._

And then he finds her.  There’s not a speck of doubt inside him.  The second he sees the photo, he knows.  The same long shape of her face.  Her high cheekbones that now seem so gaunt.  Her deep eyes.  Her pretty visage.  She’s smiling in this picture, something likely taken back at her home.  _Her home._   It’s a small house near Amiens, which is just outside of Paris.  According to the log associated with the picture, she was brought into the Scorpio program on September 15th, 1955.  She was a miller’s daughter, and she was nineteen when she was kidnapped.  There’s no record of her other than that.  No name.  No identity.  Nothing.  They simply referred to her as subject 23.

Vaguely Bucky hears the other Avengers talking over the line, but he’s not paying much attention.  He’s reading.  There are notes from the doctors, particularly someone named Johan Müller.  He was one of the junior researchers on the team, it seems.  He was also…  “Christ Almighty,” Bucky whispers.  There’s a picture of him standing next to Arnim Zola, and now, in _this_ context, Bucky recognizes him instantly.  Johan.  _John._   “Tony, is there more information about this guy?”

“Which guy, Robocop?  It’s not like I can see who you’re pointing at.”

Bucky’s far too rattled to be annoyed.  “Johan Müller.”

It’s quiet for a couple seconds as Tony works.  Bucky can’t stop staring at Müller in the meantime.  Out of the darkness in his head, more things emerging.  Shrewd brown eyes.  A much younger face than John’s but the same, standing back and watching as Zola leaned over the test subject, over _him._   Wincing as Bucky screamed, assisting during procedures, holding bloody surgical tools…  _He was there._

“Okay, this Müller dude was definitely attached to Zola’s hip for while from what I can tell.  He was born near Salzburg in 1934.  Not sure what he was doing before HYDRA got a hold of him.  Obviously he was involved in this Scorpio thing,” Tony says.

“More than that,” Bucky adds darkly.  God, he doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t stop.  That guy…  He wasn’t one of the ones who beat him or dehumanized him or who forced him into the chair or who stuck the trigger words deep in his mind, but he was _there._   He watched and he helped and he knew what was happening.  Bucky feels sick.  It takes everything he has to swallow down his fear and anger, to hold fast to his composure.  “What does he have to do with subject 23?”

“Subject 23?”

“The girl from France.  In the list of victims.”

There’s a pause again.  “Well, he was involved in the experiments they did on her, as well as on a lot of the other subjects.”  Tony hums a little, probably searching through the data.  “Apparently number 23 was one of the most promising candidates for whatever godawful thing they were trying to do.  They were testing out some different serums, trying to amplify latent psychokinetic abilities…  Trying to induce psychosis in some cases to see what fun things would happen when crazy mixes with a whole lot of powerful.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters.  “Fucking HYDRA.”

“Yeah, this one is bad.  I don’t even want to read some of this stuff.  They did some horrible shit to these people, to this girl in particular.”  Bucky closes his eyes.  He can hear her screaming.  God, it’s suddenly so clear.  Images are bombarding haphazardly, smells and sounds and sights, and he recalls standing guard in front of a steel door, watching dark hallways with red flashing lights.  The Scorpio symbol was etched into the wall across from him.  She was screaming.  Men were laughing cruelly.  Müller walked in front of him dressed in a lab coat with a bunch of files in his hands, cowed and frightened, grimacing as the girl shrieked and sobbed and the laughter got louder.  Laughter and grunting and a groan of pleasure.  _“Don’t fight me,”_ someone said.

Bucky felt nothing.  _He did nothing._

He practically sobs now.  He slumps in his seat.  _Oh, God.  I let them do that to her._   It doesn’t matter that he had no control, that he was HYDRA’s puppet.  Their tool.  Their goddamn _asset._   _I let them hurt her, let them…_

Tony sighs.  “I can tell you that she was extremely powerful.  You know, if you believe in these sorts of things.  They took her because she had a history of a sort of sixth sense, like she could hear other people’s thoughts, I guess.  Soothe their souls with her mind?  If that makes sense.  And what they turned her into…  She was a bit like…  Well, like you, Wanda.  Only a ten on the bat-shit-crazy-meter.”

Wanda’s not pleased with the comparison.  “Strucker was an ambitious monster, but he never tortured me.”

“Well, Zola and his cronies did that and more.  Subject 23 was capable of mental manipulation, telekinesis, telepathy…  Whoa.  They were trying to determine if she could control people’s souls.”

“What?” Sam asks, horrified.  “That’s…”

“Insane, yeah,” Tony says, his voice softer with respect for just how awful this is.  “It seems like Project Scorpio is where HYDRA sent their evil scientists who were too evil for their mainstream evil causes.  I don’t know.  A couple of these documents said they wanted to create weapons capable of ripping the human soul from its flesh, capable of causing madness with a mere thought.  Basically they wanted to make mental WMDs, walking and talking weapons that could control the spiritual world.”

Bucky can’t process any of that.  He’s staring at her photo again, and he hears his own voice, twisted in a weak murmur.  “What happened to all of them?”  He knows.  _He knows._   But he needs to hear it, to understand it fully.  “What happened to her?”

“James…”  That’s Wanda, and she sounds incredibly concerned.

“There aren’t any records,” Tony declares.  “I have pretty detailed logs from September, 1955 through August, 1958, but after that…  Scorpio was shut down.  No explanation.  No reason.  Nada.  Zola for sure ended up back Stateside.  Not sure what happened to everyone else, though.  I don’t know if they just didn’t keep up with record-keeping or someone destroyed the documents.  Maybe this stuff was too fucked up even for HYDRA’s standards.”

_She’s dead.  And I killed her._

“Bucky.”  That’s Sam, and his voice is nothing but fearful.  “Are you okay?  Steve said you were seeing things, and now you got us looking up old demons like this, and I gotta imagine that’s not a coincidence.  What’s going on?”

_I killed her.  And she’s after me._

He tosses his phone into the passenger seat and sits up straight.  Then he’s turning the car on, panicked, and throwing the vehicle into drive before gunning it back out onto the rainy road.  “I’m getting Steve,” he gasps, “and then we’re getting the hell out of here.”

* * *

By the time Bucky gets back to the house, the reality of the situation has truly sunk in.  As the Winter Soldier, he kidnapped dozens of people in whom HYDRA had interest as clairvoyants or telepaths or with some other sense that went beyond the bounds of normal human function.  This young woman from France was among them.  All the victims were all forced into some sort of super soldier-like program, only these experiments focused on honing and amplifying their mental or preternatural abilities so as to create weapons out of them.  These experiments relied heavily upon physical and mental duress, in addition to the administration of undoubtedly poisonous chemicals and other harsh treatments.  Years later, the program was shut down, and the Winter Soldier ended up killing its most promising candidate.

Now said promising candidate was a ghost, and she was haunting him.  Torturing him.  Turning him on Steve.  Tearing down everything they were trying to build with each other.  _Hurting them._

_Shit, this is bad._

Bucky no longer has any doubt that this is real.  His disbelief dwindled on the phone with the team, but now it’s gone completely.  This is _actually_ happening.  This isn’t in his head.  He’s not hallucinating or having a flashback or projecting the darkness inside him.  No, a very powerful, very _angry_ revenant is after him.  They have to get away.

_Now._

He ends the call with the others with the promise to contact them immediately once he and Steve are on the road.  They don’t seem pleased with the plan.  Even if they don’t know everything (and there’s no way they can), they can tell something’s wrong.  Steve said as much to Sam yesterday, and with everything Bucky told Wanda and with what they recently uncovered…  It’s only natural for them to be afraid.  But Bucky assures them that he’s getting Steve and doing what Steve suggested right away: _coming home._   It’s going to be fine.  They’ll get away from this, get away from the house and her.  They’ll go back to New York, back to the complex.  Then, with the others’ help, they can figure this out.

Of course, there’s nothing to say she won’t follow them.  Obviously she somehow found them here.  _We’ll cross that bridge when we get there._   That’s all Bucky can think about as he brings the Range Rover to a sharp stop in front of the porch.  He doesn’t look at the house, doesn’t let his fear slow him, as he bolts out of the SUV and up the steps to the front door.  There isn’t a breath of wind.  It’s gotten very misty outside, a thin, wet fog that’s eerily clinging to everything.  Wet and cold and gray.  Forbidding.  Bucky doesn’t let it touch him.  He reaches the front door and grasps the knob, twisting it and expecting to go right in.

It’s locked.

That’s a surprise.  Bucky almost plows into the door before he realizes he can’t open it.  He works the knob again, confused, but it doesn’t turn.  Did he lock the door on his way out?  He doesn’t remember doing it.  Did Steve lock it?  “Shit,” he breathes.  He doesn’t have a key.  It’s not on the ring with the car keys.

Bucky sighs shortly in aggravation.  He looks through the side light windows.  There’s the front table, and there are the goddamn house keys right there.  Angry and agitated, he rings the doorbell.  He can hear it chime inside, but seconds pass, and there’s no answer.  He rings it again.  No sounds of footsteps coming, no call of Steve’s voice.  Nothing but silence.  Bucky peers through the windows, searching for signs of movement inside.  _Nothing._

Bucky’s blood goes cold.  He gives up on the bell, knocking on the door instead.  “Steve?” he calls.  More uncomfortable quiet.  He bangs harder, rings the bell over and over again, but there’s _still_ no answer.  “Steve!”

Nothing.

Bucky backs down off the porch, abruptly breathless.  Once more terror settles into the pit of his stomach.  He stands there uselessly for a second before thinking to use his phone.  He finds Steve’s number in his contacts and calls it.  It rings and rings.  He stares at the turret as it rises through the mist, listening to the monotonous tone as the call fails to connect.  Upstairs in their bedroom…  A hazy glimpse of white, of pale skin and brown hair.  Is that her?  When he blinks and tries to look more carefully, there’s nothing there other than shadows and haze.  And his phone is still ringing.

Steve’s not answering.

More and more upset, Bucky ends the call and sprints around the house to the back.  He knows he can break down the front door, bust in any of the windows, get in if he wants…  And he can – _should_ – call for help, because it’s not like Steve not to answer.  Wanda said before offhandedly that he wasn’t.  Christ, what’s wrong?  Maybe…  Maybe he really _did_ hurt Steve last night.  He shouldn’t have left.  _Oh, God._ What’s happening?

Nothing, as it turns out.  The second Bucky goes to the back patio where the French doors to the kitchen are, he spots Steve.  He’s standing there at the island, neatly dressed in khaki jeans and a gray, thermal shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  The mess from the apple pie is gone, and he’s got a couple pots boiling on the range.  He looks fine, and Bucky practically collapses from relief. 

But the patio doors are locked, too.  Bucky knocks.  Steve doesn’t look up first, busy with cutting some vegetables, so Bucky raps a little harder, his metal fingers clanking on the glass.  This time it gets Steve’s attention, and he frowns when he sees Bucky.  He sets down his knife and crosses the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel he has hanging out of the front pocket of his pants.  He unlocks the door.  “What are you doing out here?”

There’s…  something off.  Bucky’s not sure what he expected, but Steve just standing there, cooking like nothing happened last night, looking at him now like he’s only confused and not at all concerned…  That’s really, _really_ weird.  “Trying to get in,” Bucky says slowly, staring at his boyfriend with narrowed eyes.

Steve seems to take that at face value.  “Well, come in then.  Cold and miserable out there.”

Bucky just scrutinizes him more.  Yeah, Steve looks… normal.  Like himself.  But that something still feels wrong, like a tickle in his gut.  Steve stares back.  Then he frowns, looking aggravated.  “What?”

“N-nothing,” Bucky says, unsteady and uncertain.  “Are you okay?”

Steve rolls his eyes.  _Steve rolls his eyes._   And not playfully.  In irritation.  “Fine.  Trying to make lunch.”  And he leaves Bucky at the door and goes back to his cooking.

That uncomfortable tickle is getting worse and worse, a whisper of warning curling around his thoughts.  Bucky hesitantly takes a step inside, his sneakers squelching on the tile.  “You wanna take those off?” Steve says curtly.  “You’re tracking in mud and water.”

“No need.  We have to go.”

Steve’s back behind the kitchen island like he’s not listening at all.  He takes up the knife again, spins it agilely between his fingers in a move that’s not at all like Captain America but _very_ like the Winter Soldier, and resumes cutting up some stalks of celery.  “I’m making chili.”  Bucky’s eyes go wide.  “Brand new recipe.  One of those where you throw in whatever you’ve got lying around?  Should be ready in a couple hours.”

“Steve, didn’t you hear me?” Bucky asks, flabbergasted.  He comes across the room, standing in front of the island.  “We have to go right now.  After last night–”

“Nothing happened last night,” Steve calmly declares.  The knife is making quick, precise cuts in the rib of celery.  “Right?  That’s what you keep telling me.  You’re fine, and nothing’s wrong.”

“I was full of shit,” Bucky declares quickly.  “I found out who she is, Steve.  The ghost.  She’s real.  She’s dangerous and she’s powerful.  And I – I was the reason she was hurt.  I brought her to HYDRA.  I made it possible for them to experiment on her.  And I killed her.”  If he wasn’t so scared of the situation, he’d be terribly ashamed.  As it is, he’s rattling off facts because Steve needs to hear the truth.  “It’s my fault completely.”

Steve looks up sharply.  “Oh, so now you admit that?”  _What?_   Bucky feels the blood drain from his face.  Steve glares hatefully – _hatefully_ – for a second before cutting through the next stalk of celery.  “Little late.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to make of that.  It doesn’t seem possible that those harsh, sarcastic words could be coming from Steve’s mouth.  _From Steve._   Something is _very_ wrong.  “We have to go,” Bucky says again when he recovers his voice.  “We have to.  We need help to handle this.  She was a – she has powers like Wanda, Steve.  A witch, I guess.  She can get into your head.  She can make you see things.”  He knows he’s babbling, knows it sounds ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself.   “She’s making _me_ see things, really bad things.  She’s trying to get me to do awful things, Steve.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Steve says glibly, and now he’s dumping his perfectly sliced celery into his boiling pot.  “And you’re fine.  You said so yourself.”

 _What the hell?_   “Steve, she is trying to make me hurt you.  I know it, okay? _I know it._ She’s trying to make me…  Christ, I can’t even think about it.”  His voice breaks.  His eyes well with tears.  He barely holds it together.  “I can’t bear to think about the things she’s trying to make me do to you.  I can’t.”  Steve doesn’t react to that.  Not at all.  He’s stirring his simmering chili.  Bucky swallows thickly and keeps going.  “I’m scared that if we stay, she’ll… she’ll get her way.  So we _have_ to go.”

Again, there’s no reaction.  Steve’s face is completely impassive.  Bucky can’t make heads or tails of that.  Steve, who’s the most caring, compassionate person he’s ever met _._   Steve, _who_ _loves him,_ is acting like he couldn’t care less about Bucky’s confession, about Bucky’s pain and fear.  Bucky sighs shortly and shakily.  “You were right, okay?  When you said yesterday that we should go back to New York, you were right.  And I should have listened.  I should have seen that.  Okay?  I should have.  Now I do.  My eyes are _wide open._ ” 

“Wonderful,” Steve says, stirring and stirring.  He raises the spoon to Bucky, clearly in an offering.  “Want to taste this?”

Bucky can’t believe it.  His eyes dart between Steve’s nonplussed face and the spoon, which is dripping tomato sauce, thick and red, like blood.  It’s silent, and the chili drops into the pot with a soft plop.  “Aren’t you listening to me?” Bucky asks softly, aghast.

Steve sighs, annoyed.  “If you’re not gonna try it, then don’t bitch to me later if you don’t like it.”

“Steve, damn it, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Me?”  Steve’s eyes flash.  “What the hell’s wrong _with you?_   I’m trying to do what we wanted.  Trying to make this work.  And you keep acting like a selfish asshole.”  That hurts.  It hurts a lot.  It doesn’t seem like Steve actually said it for a second or two.  “You disappear all morning–”

“I sent you a text–”

“And yesterday you acted like a fucking crazy person from dawn until dusk,” Steve says.  He sighs in disapproval.  “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it stops.  This is our life, our _new_ life.  Our home.  I bought this place for us to rebuild our lives, and you want to leave.”

“That’s not why I want to leave,” Bucky counters.  How is this getting so twisted around?  “There’s something _happening_ to me!  If we stay here–”

“I’m not leaving,” Steve calmly declares in the face of Bucky’s mounting panic.  Bucky stares at him in utter horror.  There’s still not a lick of understanding or concern or sympathy on Steve’s face, not a hint of care in his voice.  This, from the man who was desperate to help him last night, so desperate that he was sobbing through the door of that bedroom, _begging_ Bucky to let him in.

_This isn’t right!_

Bucky can’t fathom what’s happening.  In the back of his mind, though… _he knows._   His mouth hangs open limply, and he’s shaking his head weakly.  “Steve–”

“This is _our_ home,” Steve says again.  “I’m not going to let your past take that away from us.”

“It already has!” Bucky cries.  “Don’t you see that?”

Steve slams the spoon down on the counter.  Chili splatters on the granite.  Bucky jumps in his skin.  “All I see,” Steve hisses, “is _you_ ruining everything I’ve been trying to give you.  So, no, I am not leaving.  And I don’t care what you think is happening.”

Bucky loses his patience.  It’s been hanging by a thread for days.  “What the hell is the matter with you?  Just _yesterday_ you told me that nothing is more important than my happiness, than _me._   And now I’m telling you that something is in this house, that something is trying to _hurt us,_ and you don’t believe me.  You swore to me that you trust me, and now–”

“Are _you_ not listening to _me_?” Steve snaps, interrupting him.  “Let me say it slowly.  I am not leaving.”  He annunciates every word, practically spits them.  “Do you understand?”

“God, Steve…”  Bucky feels sick, feels like the world is collapsing.  Somehow, even with all the hell he’s lived over the last couple days, _this_ is the worst.  This, with Steve glaring at him, condescending and cruel.  This, with Steve blaming him, ignoring him, treating him so coldly.  This isn’t Steve!

… _this isn’t Steve._

_It’s not Steve._

That thought he couldn’t accept moments ago is roaring, screaming so loud that it’s all there is.  He stares at the man he loves, the man he knows better than anyone, the man he knows better than himself.  The only thing left inside him when HYDRA burned and scorched everything else away.  The only thing that stayed, because Steve has always been so deeply intertwined with him, part of his heart and soul.  Steve has always been his foundation.

And Steve’s eyes are _all wrong._   Cold.  Empty.  _Dark._

Gray.

_Oh, God.  She took him._

Bucky can’t process that for what feels like forever.  He never saw this coming.  Never.  Not her.  Not her taking Steve away from him.  Not her _using_ Steve like this.  Time stands still.  The house is quiet, allowing the awful realization to truly sink its venomous claws in.  The chili is simmering, filling the air with its spicy, heady scent.  It’s bubbling almost angrily in the pot, and Bucky’s just staring Steve on the other side of it.  _She took Steve.  She took him.  She’s in his head.  She has his body.  She’s controlling him oh God oh God what do I do what do I do…_   The storm of thoughts and fears and questions swirls inside him, and he can’t even parse it, can’t even begin to figure out how to stop this.  _I need to get him out of here.  I need to.  I’ll drag him out of the house if I have to.  I have to get him back to New York, back to the others, back to Tony and Wanda and Sam._

_They’ll know what to do._

Almost of their own accord, his fingers are reaching into the pocket of his jeans.  They’re pulling out his phone.  His thumb’s swiping across the screen to unlock it, and he’s looking down to find Sam’s number, to call the Avengers because this ghost – _subject 23_ – has possessed Steve and _they need to get him back right now._

But he can’t make the call.  He can’t because Steve is reaching across the island, quick as lightning, and snatching the phone right out of his fingers.  Maybe Bucky would have been able to stop him if he wasn’t so completely lost and distressed, but as it is, Steve takes it easily.  And he crushes it just as easily.  It’s nothing compared to his strength, and all it takes is a quick squeeze before shattered plastic and glass and circuit boards drop to the counter.  Bucky watches in shock.  This isn’t happening.  _This can’t be happening._

“Don’t need that,” Steve says, and now he smiles sweetly.  It’s like a complete turn-around.  Dizzying.  “Don’t need any of that.  Never needed it when we were kids, all this new-fangled bullshit.”

“What?” Bucky whispers.

“It’s like you can’t ever get away nowadays.  Can’t ever shut it off, not completely.  Can’t ever be free of it, and I want to be free.  I want to be alone.  I wanted to retire and close the door on the outside world.  So I took care of it.  Nothing to worry about.”  He grins more broadly.  “No one’s going to bother us anymore.”

Bucky doesn’t understand this at all at first.  Then it starts to sink in.  Steve smashing his phone.  Steve not answering his own phone.  He moves away from the island slowly, heading to the entertainment area, terrified of what he’ll find.

He doesn’t need to do more that peer around the wall and into the spacious area to have all his worst suspicions confirmed.  Steve’s destroyed _everything._   Things are smashed to bits.  It’s in a huge pile on the floor right in front of where the TV used to hang.  Bucky can just barely make out what the broken glass and plastic and metal used to be.  Steve’s laptop.  A couple of StarkPads.  That fancy art tablet he just bought.  The house phones.  _His_ phone.  The TV itself, that one and all the others in the house.  All the fancy electronics Tony had installed in the house are nothing more than a heap of debris.  It even looks like he ripped the wiring out of the walls, cables and plugs mixed in with the destruction.

 _Jesus Christ._ Bucky averts his gaze, shocked.  _He’s cut us off.  I can’t call for help._   There’s no choice.  _I have to get him out of here.  I have to go now.  Right now._   He pivots, making to run back outside, but _Steve’s right there._   He’s maybe only an inch away from him, behind him, and the knife is held lightly in his hand.  “No one’s going to bother us, Buck.”  The way he says that…  That’s _his_ nickname for Bucky.  No one calls Bucky “Buck” except Steve.  And it’s _terrible_ hearing it spoken like this _._   Steve grins toothily.  “And we’re not going anywhere.  Give me the car keys.”

Bucky’s breath locks up in his throat.  “Wh-what?”

Now there’s a threat in Steve’s glare.  It’s bright and awful.  “I’m not leaving, and neither are you.  Give me the car keys.”  He spins the knife again at his side, and that’s done on purpose, to _show_ Bucky it’s there.  “Come on.”

Bucky can’t begin to process this.  “Steve–”

Steve moves fast, and Bucky has a split second where he thinks: _this is it.  This is the end._   But it’s not.  Steve just slides his hand into Bucky’s jeans pocket, an act which would have been nothing but flirty and sensual any other time, and grabs the keyring.  He pulls it out, and Bucky just lets him, too horrified to fight back, and too certain that if he does, one of them is going to get seriously hurt or worse because she’s controlling Steve.

And she wants nothing more than to hurt them both.

The keys jingle as Steve holds them up in front of Bucky’s face.  He dangles them like a fucking carrot, like he’s testing to see if Bucky will bite.  Bucky doesn’t.  His heart’s pounding in his ears, and he swallows down his terror.  He’s not moving.  _He’s not doing a goddamn thing._

After a second, Steve gives up with taunting him and clasps the keys in his hand.  He squeezes them tightly before putting them in his own pocket.  Then, in an utterly repulsive parody of so many before it, he leans in and gives Bucky a deep kiss.  Bucky goes stiff, cold as ice, and lets him.  It’s awful and rough and possessive, biting and harsh.  This… _lie_ doesn’t kiss like Steve does.  He doesn’t even _taste_ like Steve.

Steve pulls back after a second and grins smugly.  “Go get cleaned up.  I’ll get lunch ready.”  He gives Bucky a peck to the cheek before heading back to the kitchen, twirling the knife all the way.

For a long minute, Bucky just stands there.  He can’t move.  He can’t breathe.  He can’t think or even feel.  It’s too horrific, too terrible.

_She took Steve.  She’s got him.  Last night…  He was screaming and screaming.  I let it happen.  And this morning…  Christ, I should never have left.  This is my fault, my fucking fault, oh, God, baby, what do I do what what what–_

Before he even thinks twice, he’s running back to the front door and out of the house with tears streaming down his face like the rain that’s again falling all around them.

* * *

It feels like forever that he’s outside, lost in the drizzle.  There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.  Without the car keys, he’s not driving anywhere.  He can walk away, he supposes, run even, but he knows he can’t.  _He can’t._   She has him right where she wants him, because she has Steve, and he cannot leave Steve to her tortures.  There’s just no way.  As he wanders down the road, slowly getting soaked in the cold rain, he knows he can’t even leave to get help.  It seems like his only option is to head into town and find a phone somehow, to call the others for help, but the thought of leaving Steve here in her prison for even as long as that would take is unbearable.

He's failing.  This is his fault.  His crimes.  His past returning to haunt them.  His demons hell bent on destroying them.  He has to do _something_.  He just doesn’t know what.  If subject 23 can manipulate someone’s mind, forcing down his personality, pushing her own will onto the body like it’s nothing more than a puppet…  If she can control Steve’s _soul_ , then this is well beyond his capacity to handle.  He’s always been a weapon, an instrument of war and discord, but his expertise lies in physical battle.  This?  _Way_ outside his understanding.  The only person he knows who may be able to aid him is Wanda, and she’s five hours away.

But Tony can get her here faster if he can get in contact with him.  And that leads him back to the only choice: running into town to find a phone.

If the ghost will let him.

He doesn’t think she will.  “God Almighty,” he moans, wiping his face with his right hand, scrubbing away the mixture of rain, sweat, and tears.  His breath is a jet of vapor in front of his lips, quick to fade and then quick to come again.  Insubstantial.  He looks up, shivering, and stares at the gray sky, the aching, angry, lumbering clouds.  It’s stupid, but he can’t remember the last time he’s seen the sun.

Eventually he gets tired of his own depression.  He’s been roaming and wandering for a while, fifteen or twenty minutes at least.  He’s terrified to go back into the house, terrified of Steve, of what she’s done to him, of what Steve may do under her control…  

_I have to do something!_

The sudden burst of rage and frustration has him walking to the stone drive, running along the road and down the hill and through the woods.  _Go find a phone.  You can’t handle this._   He’s wasting time.  _You can’t save him._

_Weak, pathetic, useless…  Coward._

He doesn’t know if those are her thoughts or his.  He’s not sure it matters anymore.

He’s down near the end of the road before he even fully processes that he’s left.  Thanks to his own serum, he’s not winded, though he does slow down as he gets to the bottom where the unpaved, older road meets the main street.  He stops.  He stares.

The gray shack is there, set back in the woods.  _John._

Determination shoots through Bucky, determination and fear and so much anger, and he’s clenching his hands into fists as he rushes along the muddy walk to the little house.  The trees seem angry, densely packed around the driveway as if to ward away visitors.  They’re dripping all over him, heavy, fat, cold droplets that plop on his hair and send water down into his eyes.  Gritting his teeth, he plods harder through the mud and leaves, across the ruts in the way, and right to the front door of the place.

Up close, the shack is even more dilapidated and depressing.  He doesn’t spend much time looking it over, though, knocking harshly on the mottled door.  He’s prepared to do anything.  John’s involved in this.  He was _there_ fifty years ago when Bucky brought subject 23 into the Scorpio program.  He was there when they _conditioned_ him, when they experimented on her.  He’s fucking HYDRA.  And now she has Steve, and this man may be Bucky’s only chance of figuring out what the hell to do about that.    He wants answers.  He _needs_ answers.  If he has to, he’ll…  He’ll…

_You have your orders, soldier._

More and more agitated and impatient, he knocks loudly on the door.  This time, someone answers.

And it’s not John.  It’s an older woman, portly, with stringy dark hair that’s limp on her round shoulders.  Old clothes that are stained and gross cover her rotund figure.  Her face is sallow, pot-marked, fairly well unattractive.  Thin, wormy lips twist into a frown.  She’s missing teeth.  “What do you want?” she demands unkindly.

Bucky shakes off his surprise.  “Does a John live here?”

She frowns harder, annoyed.  “Who?”

“John.  I don’t know his last name.”  She stares at him, clearly caught between confusion and ire.  Bucky frowns himself.  “He might go by Johan Müller.”

“Nobody here by that name,” she curtly replies.

Bucky barely holds onto his temper.  _Of course not._   “An old guy.  Really old.  Maybe in his eighties?  Walks with a cane.”

“There’s no old man here.”  Her voice is harder.  “Never been an old man here.  Just me.  I told you!”

Bucky takes a step back, battling what feels like crippling frustration.  He tries to think rationally.  This means (unsurprisingly) that John lied that first day, lied about living here, and purposefully entered their house uninvited to tell them that lie.  To scope them out, maybe.  _Reconnaissance._ And that, in turn, means Bucky and Steve coming here…  Everything that’s happened.  It’s not a coincidence.  It’s not an accident.  John and subject 23, however they’re linked, sought them out.

That makes it all even more sinister.

The woman’s staring at her with shrewd, hard eyes.  “Who the hell are you?”

Bucky jerks.  He finds his voice.  “No one.”  He sticks his hands into his coat pockets and turns to go, pretty damn well defeated.

He doesn’t get far at all.  “Wait.  I know you.”  Bucky stops mid-step.  A shudder tickles at the base of his spine.  He doesn’t turn around, scared of showing her his face again.  All these days they’ve been here in secrecy, flying under the radar, secure in anonymity…

“You’re him.  The Winter Soldier.”

And _this_ random woman who looks like she hasn’t seen civilization in ages is the one who recognizes him.  Identifies him.  The commands come unbidden, roaring from the shadows inside him.  _Do not become compromised.  Eliminate her._

 _No._   He stands stock still, every muscle inside him tense.  He’s holding back the urge to act, to kill.  He’s so rattled that it’s harder than it should be, than it has been for months.  “If I am?” he asks, as if there’s anything this woman can do to him.  He wonders if she has any idea how much danger she’s in, how easily he can end her life.

She doesn’t.  She goes on, as bold as can be.  “You’re the one who killed all those people.  The assassin.  I saw it on the news.”  Her voice is a little closer, like she’s walking after him.  “You got off scot-free.  That’s not right.”

 _No, it’s not._   “I didn’t ask to be pardoned,” he says.

She seems to consider that a second.  “But you were.”

He closes his eyes.  “Not by anyone who matters.”

She says nothing to that, so the woods go quiet.  After a beat, Bucky glances over his shoulder to see she’s gone and the door’s shut again.

The patter of the rain against the leaves is the only sound.  It’s hushed, less a cacophony and more a melancholic whisper.  Bucky listens, sighing wearily and looking around.  He didn’t even ask her if he could use her phone, that is if she even has one.  And John’s not here.  Without John…

Bucky’s back to not knowing what to do.  He finds himself walking wearily back down the muddy path, forest detritus covering his shoes as he plods along.  Then he’s at the road.  He looks down the wet, misty path to the left, which will take him to town and to a phone or a car or _something_ that can maybe help.  Then he looks to the right, to the equally wet, unpaved road heading back up to the house.  And then he just stands there.  He’s so low, so hurt, so tired.  Someone else…  Sam or Natasha or Tony.  They’d know how to handle this.  They’d _be able_ to handle it.  He’s…

 _“You’re his best friend, James.”_   Sarah Rogers’ voice barely came.  She’d been coughing all through the night, coughing hard, coughing up blood.  This had been going on for a week or so now, and Bucky and his parents suspected it was TB.  Ever since Sarah did those shifts in the TB ward at the hospital…  She was never in the best of health.  She was a slight, seemingly frail woman, and it was obvious from whom Steve had inherited his laundry list of medical issues.

But this was different, and everyone knew it.  Everyone except Steve.  Steve was in denial.  He already left on this gray, drizzly spring morning to get Doctor Waverly to come, as if having the physician look his mother over would result in some different prognosis.  It wasn’t going to.  This was going to be it.  They’d send her to a sanatorium, where she’d be kept away from her son.  Where she’d probably die.  This was going to be the last time any of them saw her, the last time _Steve_ saw her.  Bucky knew that in his heart, but he wasn’t going to begrudge Steve for holding onto hope.

Neither was his mother.  Sarah had always been so kind, so bright and sunny for her only child, even as his constant poor health and the long hours she worked and their destitution wore on her.  Bucky had never seen someone so strong.  Steve might have gotten his health issues from her, but he’d also gotten her power, her courage, her compassion.  Her calm and unending sense of right and her faith in decency.  So she let Steve go and fetch the doctor, even if it would only confirm the inevitable.  She let him run and try, even if it was fruitless.

And with Steve gone, she was staring at Bucky from her bed.  She wasn’t motioning him any closer than from where he stood on the other side of the small bedroom, their tenement’s _only_ bedroom.  In the back of his mind, Bucky was scared, scared that Steve had been living in contact with her the last few days, scared that he’d already been exposed and with his weak lungs and damaged heart, tuberculosis would be an immediate death sentence for him.  As it turned out, God or fate or whatever powers that be had been watching over Steve, protecting him from this.  For once, he’d been spared.

At least physically.  Sarah’s dry lips pulled into a weak smile.  Her face was sallow, blonde hair lusterless on the lumpy pillow.  Even as ill and weak as she was, she was still smiling and still talking.  _“You are.  You’re the best friend he could have.”_

_“Mrs. Rogers–”_

_“I knew from the moment you met him that you were good.  So good for him.  So strong and so good.  I don’t know…  I don’t know what I did to make God answer my prayers so well…”_

Bucky’s eyes welled with tears.  _“Please, don’t talk.  Steve’s going to come right back with the doc.  It’s going to be okay.”_

She gave him a knowing look.  It was one they’d shared over the years behind Steve’s back, a fond glance that spoke volumes of how much they understood and appreciated each other.  _“He loves you, James.”_

Bucky grimaced.  She could mean something else, but he knew she didn’t.  His throat closed up, and his voice was nothing more than a strained murmur.  _“Don’t say that…  It ain’t right, Mrs. Rogers.  It ain’t proper–”_

 _“He loves you,”_ she said again, undaunted and not at all upset.  _“God brought you to him.”_   How could she think that?  That God or anyone else would condone their relationship?  That it wasn’t a sin?  But she went on, said it again and again.  _“You mean the world to him, James.  He loves you.”_

There was no sense in denying it to her.  She deserved his honesty.  _“I know,”_ he whispered.

 _“So you need to stay with him now,”_ she softly declared.  Her eyes held his, piercing, pleading, _needing._   _“You need to watch over him.  Be with him.  Don’t leave him alone in this world–”_

_“I won’t.”_

_“Don’t let them hurt him.  Don’t let him–”_

_“I’ll always be with him.”_

_“Promise me, James.  Promise me.”_

_“I promise.  I’ll take care of him, Mrs. Rogers.  I’ll protect him.  I…”_   Confessing to a condemned woman felt wrong and cowardly, but it was right, too, because this was Steve’s mother, and she deserved to know her son was cherished.  _“I love him, too.  With all my heart.”_

She did nothing but smile, closing her eyes.  And now she was the one to whisper.  _“I know.”_   She wheezed, but that smile never faded.  _“You’re a good man, James.  I’ve watched you grow into such a good man.”_

That smile _never_ faded, even as they came to take her away.  It was raining as Steve and Bucky watched, as Bucky put his arm around Steve’s shoulders and tugged him close, as Steve saw his mother for the last time.

And it’s raining now.  Raining hard.  Raining and raining.

_I’ll take care of him, Mrs. Rogers.  I love him with all my heart._

Once more he’s running before he even realizes it, racing to the right, back up the road that’ll lead him to the house.  _I promised.  Steve’s mine and I’m his.  She’s not taking him from me.  She’s not doing this to us!_ His feet pound onto the ground, sneakers splattering into the dirt and leaves and stones.  His heart’s pounding, too, pounding with conviction.  Determination.  _I’m coming.  If you want me, you have to take me.  You have to take me!_

_I won’t let you hurt him!_

The road winds, feels steeper, but Bucky doesn’t slow down.  He reaches the top where the drive turns toward the house and the woods fall away.  Then he stops.  Terror has him reeling, feet skidding, heart seizing in his chest.  _No._   Memories surge.  _Not this._

 _“Buck, what’s wrong?”_   It was late one night, and Bucky had had nightmare after nightmare.  It was one of the worst spells of PTSD he’s had to date.  This was right after Wanda and his therapists began working the triggers from his subconscious.  A lot of bad shit came with that, like once she went down inside the darkness and started digging around, things long repressed, damaged, and silenced were disturbed and came shrieking to the forefront.  It was exhausting, all these days of reliving horrors, of remembering the awful things done to him and the awful things he did.  It was hell.

And Steve walked through it with him.  At the time, Bucky hardly remembered him.  There was thing pull inside him – _always this pull_ – that tied them together, but as deep and powerful a feeling it was, it had no context.  The man on the bridge.  Captain America.  _“You’re Steve.  I read about you in a museum.”_   He only remembered flashes of everything else, the little kid with the floppy hair and the baby bird bones and the fire in his eyes.  The young man who smiled like the sun and offered him everything he had with open arms.  The hero who led them all and who inspired a nation and who saved the world.  And he was Steve’s best friend, his stalwart protector, his lover and his soulmate.  He knew that in an indistinct way.  Those flashes of things were just barely forming a picture of who Steve Rogers was, of who Bucky Barnes was.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve whispered, rubbing his back tenderly as he shook with sobs.  Bucky was curled in their bed back at the complex, shivering with shock, suffering with the lingering images of blood and fire and hearing distant cries.  Steve’s voice rose above it.  _“Talk to me.  It might help.  Tell me–”_

 _“I killed them…”_   He remembers how hard it was to speak.  How terrified he was of the truth.  _“God, I killed them all!”_  

_You have your orders, soldier._

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_ Steve’s voice broke a little as he held Bucky tighter.  What could he possibly say to make this right?  _“I know it, Bucky.  These things you did, the… people you killed…  None of that was your choice.  It’s not your fault.”_

_It is my fault._

_“They’re screaming, Steve.”_ He curled harder into himself, twisting the sweat-soaked sheets around him.  _“They won’t stop screaming!  Please make it stop!”_

_“Bucky–”_

_“So many…”_

_So many._

And they’re _here._   Dozens of people.  They’re lining the drive up to the cul de sac, standing in the rain.  Men in suits, in uniforms from different time periods, from different nations, from all different walks of life.  Women in dresses, in jeans, in nurse’s attire, in professional suits.  _Children._   So many people.

So many victims.  Targets.  Threats to HYDRA.  Incidental casualties.  Unlucky bystanders.  Bad people and good people and everything in between.  He killed them all.  He doesn’t recognize some of them, most of them, but he knows that he did it.  He knows like he knew with her that first day he saw her.  He knows it in his soul.

He killed them all.

And they are _all_ staring at him.

Bucky breathes shallowly.  The rain has calmed, inexplicably halting as he’s reached the top, and now there’s the mist again, only it’s much thicker.  It’s soupy, weaving around the ghostly figures.  And he _knows_ they’re ghosts.  This isn’t real.  She’s making him see this, conjuring these apparitions from his own mind, from the dark parts that he can’t bear to see.  She’s praying on his insecurities.  She’s trying to keep him away from Steve.  No, she’s trying to torture him by making him pass through this to get to Steve.  She’s using Steve as bait again.  She’s trying to make him face this.  She wants to hurt him.

She’s fucking well succeeding.

He’s absolutely rigid with fear, panting and wide-eyed and trembling, as he darts his gaze among them all.  Their faces are lax, impassive.  Their eyes are empty.  The second he looks at each, though…  Things wink before his eyes.  His senses go wild.  _Bones breaking skin ripping guns discharging smell of smoke screaming bombs going off wall of fire water begging fear pain kill them all–_

_Well done, soldier._

“You can’t keep me away,” he whispers, still warily appraising what stands between him and Steve.  “You can’t.”  And he takes a step forward.

Nothing happens.  No one moves.  It’s utterly, eerily still.  Bucky can’t hardly bring himself to breathe.  The ghosts are on either side of him, just a couple feet away, but they don’t come closer.  They’re like statues, in fact, pale and gray.  Taking that as a sign to continue, Bucky walks on.  Slowly and carefully, _very_ carefully.  He sticks tightly to the middle of the drive, terrified of taking so much as one wrong step and ending up within arm’s reach of any of them.  Dozens of pairs of eyes are tracking his every movement.  He watches back, scanning the crowd for any changes.  It feels like a stalemate of sorts, one between him and all of them.  Or between him and her.  He doesn’t know which.  He doesn’t care.  He just wants to get in the house.  He _needs_ to get in the house, to get Steve, and get the hell out of here.  Somehow.  He has to.

The rocks crunch under his shoes.  That makes him jump, turn, and he twists only to see the ghosts that he’s passed are following him.  A family with their two children.  A couple of stern-looking, older men dressed in Russian military uniforms.  A group of young women.  A middle-aged man in a lab coat.  They’re all behind him, walking in a solemn, undead parade.  Nameless.  Meaningless, in a sense.  Bucky turns back, too frightened to think.  The thought of having them behind him…  His mind supplies the image unbidden.  Knives plunging into his back.  _No less than he deserves._

However, they don’t attack him.  They keep their distance, and he walks on, passing more and more of them, and more and more join the ranks following him.  A parade of murder, of death, of loss.  The tension is as thick as the fog.  Bucky clenches his teeth.  _Keep going.  Keep walking.  You have to keep going._   One foot in front of the other.  Eyes down.  Don’t look at them.  Don’t see.  _Keep going._

As he rounds the cul de sac toward the front porch, the crowd thickens.  Now he’s practically walking among them, the lone living soul in a world of dead.  His pace slows drastically; there’s no way through now, not unless they let him by.

They do, but only once he’s forced to look up.  Once he’s forced to _see_ them.  Their cold, dead eyes.  Their empty expressions that to him seem as vicious and cruel as baleful glowers.  Condemnation.  Accusation.  Hatred.  They level that at him as they slowly back away, floating more than walking.  The mist grows closer, weaves around them, draws them in.  It seems almost a part of them.  Bucky feels like he’s drowning it.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he reaches the porch.  The Range Rover is just a little bit away, practically consumed by the mist.  There are more people in the path to it; even if he had the keys to the car, it’s obvious they’re not about to let him reach it.  No, there’s only one way to walk, and it leads to the porch.

And one figure stands atop the steps.  Bucky stops in front of them, and it suddenly feels like he’s breathing acid.  “Howard,” he whispers.

Howard Stark stares right back at him, young and suave and debonair.  The picture of wealth and accomplishment, he’s every bit the man he was when he helped the Howling Commandos battle HYDRA and the Red Skull.  God, he looks like Tony.  “Sergeant Barnes,” he greets evenly.

They simply stare at each other.  It’s surreal, unbelievable.  Unimaginable.  Howard, who always had so much to say, inappropriate jokes and snarky comments and faith and smarts…  He’s utterly silent.  Bucky blinks, sees the older man, kneeling besides his crashed car, looking up through blood and tears.  _“Sergeant Barnes?”_   The Winter Soldier beat his face in.

And Bucky blinks again.  Pain wells up inside him.  “I need to get past, Howard.  Please.”

“And why’s that, Sergeant?” Howard asks.  There’s not a hint of sympathy or understanding on his face.

Bucky doesn’t know what he can say to excuse himself.  There is nothing.  Nothing that can make it right.  And he _knows_ Howard Stark – or even the ghost of Howard Stark – is not standing in front of him.  He’s not really blocking his way and passing his judgment.  Still, it feels real enough.  “Steve’s in trouble,” Bucky says.  He has no other weapons besides the truth.  “He’s in the house.  Someone’s hurting him.”

“Is that so?”  Howard shakes his head.  “You need to answer for your crimes.”

He can feel the ghosts pressing closer.  All of them.  He knows he’s surrounded, that he’s let himself become so, but he doesn’t try to run.  He can’t escape.  He’s starting to think he never could, that this was inevitable from the second he and Steve set foot here.  “I know I do,” he says.  “I should.”

“You killed my wife,” Howard says.  Bucky closes his eyes, afraid to see Maria Stark’s ruined face in the crowd, her bruised, crushed neck where he choked her.  “You orphaned my son.”

“Mr. Stark, please–”

Howard comes down the steps, and now he’s glowering.  “You need to _pay for that_.”

The fog surrounds him.  The ghosts are close enough to touch him.  Howard’s right in front of him.  “I need to save Steve first,” Bucky whispers.  “Please.  _Please_ let me through.  I don’t care what happens to me.  You can…  Do whatever you want.  Just please let me save Steve.”

“Why?” Howard hisses.  His dark eyes flash, and Bucky can only see Tony, Tony’s hatred and vitriol when the truth came out about his parents’ deaths.  “Why should I do anything to help you?”

“Steve never hurt you,” Bucky says.  “You know that.  God, Howard, you were his friend, and he was yours.  You used to…  You respected him.  Looked up to him.  You were proud to be a part of what he was doing.”

“I didn’t know what he was, what you were,” Howard hisses.

Bucky’s frozen with fear.  He can _feel_ the other spirits; they’re practically touching him, an icy brush against his sodden clothes.  “What?”

Howard gives a small shake of his head.  “There’s no punishment in hell severe enough for a traitor.”

That cold caress gets worse, like his skin is freezing.  “Steve never betrayed you.”

“Yes, he did,” Howard sneers, right in Bucky’s face, “when he chose _you._ ”

And they swarm him.  It feels like ice is dousing him as they grab at his clothes, at his hair, at his skin.  Bucky can’t get away.  They yank him down, vicious faces hungry for revenge.  They rip and drag and pull, cruel and powerful, overcoming him and forcing him to the ground.  It hurts.  He struggles, but there’s nothing he can do, no way he can get away.  There are so many.  _So many._ Hands are all over him, holding him.  Eyes glow and glare.  Lips are pulled back into angry scowls.  Bucky yanks his metal arm free from their grasps, tries to bring it up, but he can’t, and when he sees why, sees that it’s _covered in white and frozen,_ he screams.

“Stop!”

Bucky’s eyes snap open, and it’s all over.  They’re all gone like they were never there at all.  He’s free.  He’s also choking, struggling for air.  He sits up, panic driving him, and realizes he’s on the driveway in front of the porch.

And John is looming over him.  Bucky appraises him with horrified eyes, not knowing what to expect.  The old man reaches down, and Bucky skitters back.  Somehow the obvious facts don’t apply, that he’s a well-trained super soldier and his enemy is old and frail and hardly a threat.  The feeling of those ghostly hands grabbing him, holding him, _hurting_ him won’t fade, and he’s fucking terrified.

“Stop,” John commands again, softer but not any less sternly.  “Get up.”

Bucky does stop.  John’s hand is stretched out to him, clearly in an offer to help him stand.  After a silent second or two, he takes it, scrambling to his feet.  Now there’s only the two of them.  It’s dark, foggy, silent.  Like the world is holding its breath.

Bucky finally finds his voice, as weak and pathetic as it is.  “I need to get into the house.”  He looks up at it, at its nice exterior, at the turret and the shingles and the old-timey shutters.  At the empty windows.  Everything it’s supposed to be is ruined.  “I need to–”

“She won’t let you have him back.”  John’s voice is quiet, not angry.  Melancholic.  Pitying.  Bucky turns to him.  The old man leans on his cane and shakes his head.  “She won’t.  She’s waited too long for this.”

Bucky can’t accept that.  “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“He does,” insists John, “because you love him, and she hates you.”  Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.  “She’s hated you for sixty years.  I have, too.”

“I never hurt you,” Bucky hisses.  “I know you.  I remember you.  You were there when they – they fucking did things to me, made me _theirs_.  Zola and his henchmen, and _you_ stood there and watched them–”

“I did,” John admits.  His voice tremors a bit, and Bucky wonders if it’s from guilt.  “Zola brought me into HYDRA right from medical school.  I was so young, so blind and naïve.  It was…  I thought it was an opportunity.  After the war, there were so few.  I was only a child with the Third Reich fell, but this shame…  It was our birthright, it seemed.  I didn’t realize what I’d become a part of until it was too late.”

“That’s no excuse!” Bucky cries, rounding on the man.

“And you?  Do _you_ have an excuse?”

Bucky is fucking sick and tired of this.  “You were there,” he snaps.  “You saw what they did to me.  You helped them do it!  So you damn well _know_ I do.”

John is silent for a while.  His next words are quiet.  Twisted with emotion.  “I love her.”

Bucky opens eyes he’s let slip shut and regards him.  He is bent over his cane, the weight of decades of suffering pressing down on him heavily.  Suddenly he doesn’t seem so intimidating, so distant and judgmental.  His voice wavers as he says more.  “I have since the moment I saw her, since they brought her to me and told me I was to be her principal doctor in the program.  I…  I knew what they were doing to her.  How they were trying to amplify her magic, bring her powers out and turn them to evil.  I knew.  But I couldn’t stop it.”

Bucky swallows down the pain rising in his throat.  Silently he watches John – _Johan_ – struggle with his emotions, with his guilt.  He understands that all too well.  “Day in and day out, she suffered.  They pumped poison into her.  Tormented her like all the others, but she survived it.  Withstood it.  I did everything I could for her, cared for her and comforted her, tried to make it tolerable…”  He gives a wry laugh.  “I told myself when I felt particularly guilty that I was the reason she survived, the reason their procedures worked.  Her love for me kept her strong, kept her alive.  Selfish lies, all of it, but our capacity to rationalize our inaction in the face of injustice knows no bounds.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say.  There’s nothing he can say.  John sighs, pulling himself from his rueful thoughts.  “She became so powerful.  More powerful than they could control, but the damage they did to her mind…  She never realized what she could do to them.  She was frightened, submissive.  I tried to protect her as they trained her to drive men mad, to control their minds, to prey upon their darkest fears and deepest insecurities.  To trade one man’s _soul_ for another’s.  Imagine the good she might have done with such power.  Healing someone’s pain, bringing joy to a broken heart, bringing spirits together in the darkest of time…  She was the embodiment of beauty and life, but they turned her into a harbinger of chaos, madness, and death.”

His voice goes even quieter.  “I _tried_ to protect her, but HYDRA knows no bounds when it comes to cruelty.  Once they found out about her relationship, they punished us.  They…”  His face crumples in agony.  “They raped her.”

The dark hallway.  The metal door Bucky was guarding.  Young John outside, weeping softly and listening to the horrors within.  The old man looks sick now, wrestling with a nightmare that has tormented him for decades.  “It was because of me, to teach me a lesson for my foolishness.  God, I wanted to die for what they did to her…  And she didn’t even realize she could destroy them without even trying.  They’d brought her too low for her to fight back.  For all her power, she was still just human.  Just a young woman.”

 _God._   It’s too much.  The irony of it all.  The same story over and over again.  HYDRA’s awful legacy.  It spans decades, most of a century, and it never ends.  Even with Schmidt and Zola and Pierce and all of them fucking dead and gone, _it never ends._

_Cut off one head and two more shall take its place._

“It went on and on for years.  One day I woke up and I realized I was no better than them if I let my fear control me, that to the woman I loved I was nothing more than another monster no matter how much I convinced myself otherwise.  So I helped her escape.  I turned her against them.  She was the last of the program, and even if she hadn’t been, none of the other subjects were powerful enough to stop her.  We fled.”

That explained why the Scorpio project was so suddenly and mysteriously terminated.  HYDRA lost its prized possession, the result of all that work, time, and investment.  John sighs and gathers himself.  His gaze sharpens.  “I got her out of Europe and brought her here, to America.  I thought…  The Americans had destroyed the Nazis in the war.  The Allies brought down HYDRA.  If any place was safe, it’d be here.”  He shakes his head.  “We came to a little town, not unlike this one, and I tried to build a life for her, away from other people where they couldn’t hurt her and she couldn’t hurt them.  She was… damaged.  Severely.  She trusted me, but it was out of necessity.  Out of familiarity.  It wasn’t because I’d earned her trust or done anything to be worthy of it.  As time went on, though, she got better.  She recovered from the trauma, learned to control her powers, learned to live again.  We were…  We were happy.”

John looks up, meets Bucky’s gaze, and there are angry tears in his eyes.  “Until HYDRA sent its dog after her.”  Bucky grits his teeth.  “She was deemed too dangerous to control and too dangerous to fall into the hands of anyone else, so they had you put her down.  I was…  We needed money, so I had taken a job at a small, local hospital.  One night in October the call came in late, around nine o’clock.  Emergency.  They needed me there right away.  So I kissed her goodbye, told her not to wait up for me.  She was getting ready to take a bath.  She loved baths.  The feeling of the warm water, of being held by it…  It was comforting to her.  She was drawing her bath and making herself tea.  Cutting up a loaf of sweet bread.”

Bucky winces.  Now the memories come.  The little house in the woods.  The warm light spilling outside from the windows.  The cold drizzle.  Waiting in the shadows, watching the old beat up car back out of the driveway and rattle down the road.  “I get to the hospital, only they never called me in.  There was no emergency.”  Tears slip from John’s eyes.  “I can still remember how that felt, the fear working its way over me.  How cold it was.  How I just _stood_ there, unable to accept what I knew was happening.  I rushed back, of course.  I was only gone maybe thirty minutes.  Maybe.  But I was too late.”

His gaze focuses on Bucky.  “You attacked her in the kitchen.”  Those memories mix with madness, slashing through Bucky’s mind.  “Stabbed her dozens of times.”  _Steve’s body shoved up against the refrigerator.  The knife going into his chest, into his stomach and thighs and back.  Into his body._   “She fought, but she couldn’t get away.”  _Steve_ _staggering out in the hallway, scrambling to run._ “Blood everywhere.”  _So much blood._ “You… You dragged her upstairs.”  _Pulling Steve’s arms.  Yanking his body up the steps, trailing red behind him.  Boots beating against the floor._   “She fought again in the bathroom.  Must have.”  _Glass shattering.  Curtain rips.  He forces Steve down into the water, metal fingers around his neck._ “You drowned her in the bathtub.”

_Steve stops moving.  Blood seeps from his parted lips.  Blue eyes open but unseeing.  He’s dead._

_And the water runs down like rain._

Bucky doesn’t say anything to defend himself.  He knows it’s true.  He can feel it now, the anger he experienced that day.  The rage that broke free of the programming.  The monster surging, brutal and fierce and hungry.  The darkness HYDRA put inside him…  The second he attacked her, she tried to control him, tried to get into his mind, and all that hate came out.  His own pain and violation.  The rape of his soul.  _Decades_ of it.  She inadvertently opened the floodgates, and he lost himself to it. 

He knew this was going to be the end of the story.  All of John’s hate that first day makes sense now.  So much _hate_.  His own.  Hers.  So much.  He doesn’t try to deny or defend himself; there’s nothing he can say to change what happened.  He does have one question, though.  “How did you know I was the one…”

“I saw you,” John replies.  “When I got back, I ran upstairs, and you were coming out of the bathroom.  You stared at me.  There was nothing inside you.  Nothing but violence.  Nothing but a murderer.”

“That’s not me,” Bucky says sharply.  “Not anymore.”

John gathers himself.  His cheeks, where his skin seems papery thin, are wet with tears, and his eyes are mired in disgust again.  “There’s blood on your hands,” he says firmly.  “Blood you can’t ever wash away.”

Just like that, Bucky’s losing his temper again.  “You think I don’t know that?  You think I don’t care?”

John doesn’t seem to hear him.  “Evil that you’ve done.  But this?  What’s happening now?”  He turns away, shuffling his feet, bent once more.  “This is evil _I’ve_ done.”

Bucky goes cold.  “What do you mean?”  He doesn’t answer right away.  The silence is oppressive.  Damning.  Thin shoulders shiver, and he sighs.  He looks so old and withered and burdened.  Bucky snaps, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.  “What the hell do you mean?”

“We do terrible things to hide our crimes.  Go to great lengths to ameliorate our guilt.  I…  I couldn’t handle mine.  Those few precious years where we were alone and free…  It was like this weight, driving me down.  I couldn’t live with it.  I couldn’t bear it.  I told her over and over again that it was your fault that she was hurt, that they tortured her and turned her into what she became.  You kidnapped her, brought her into the program, forced her to comply with their commands.  You were their weapon, and they used you against her, against all of them.  They believed since your mind was theirs that she couldn’t touch it.”

 _She did.  Oh, God, she did._   John glares at him.  “You had no free will.  No memories.  No soul.”  Bucky shivers, eyes stinging.  He closes them tightly.  “They thought you were immune to her, to all the people they were experimenting on.  And you were until that night.”  John shakes his head.  “She was so afraid of you.  Conditioned to submit to you.  She knew she couldn’t fight you.  And I knew–”

“You fucking _knew_ I had no choice!”

“You were a convenient symbol that I could use.  Someone to blame.”

Bucky seethes.  “You used me as a scapegoat!”

“You were the fist of HYDRA,” John says, as if Bucky could forget.  “It didn’t take much to make her hate you.  It was easy.  It was easy to convince myself, to forget what I’d done and focus on you.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky snaps.  “I didn’t have a choice!  And I didn’t rape her!  I didn’t!”

John sighs, tremulous, like it hurts him to admit the truth.  “How is what you did any different?  Standing guard?  Dragging her to them?  Bringing her to HYDRA in the first place?”

Bucky loses control of his emotions.  Tears burn his eyes, furious tears he can’t hold back.  “It’s different.  You fucking know…  You know I couldn’t stop them!  You know what they did to me!  _You helped them do it!”_   John winces, and now there’s shame.  “I never touched her like that.  _Never._   I would never.  Not her or anyone else.  And she made me think…”  The horrific vision of raping Steve…  It’s burning in his head, in his heart.  It’s a lie he can’t ever forget.  It’s a violation of the cruelest order.  She preyed upon his worst fears and insecurities, made him experience committing the worst sin imaginable against the person he loves most in the world, and she did it because this old bastard essentially _told_ her to.  “Christ Almighty.”  His voice breaks.  It takes all his strength to keep the rage at bay.  He shakes his head, trembles hard, fights harder.  “You think I’m a monster?  You’re a fucking monster all your own.  You can’t wash the blood off _your_ hands either!”

“I know!  I admit I did wrong!  I hurt you…  Hurt your friend.  I’ve been a coward.” John’s own anger comes breaking through his restraint.  “But believe me, I’ve served my sentence for what I’ve done.  I’ve _suffered_.  I’ve lived a long, long life alone, crumbling under my guilt.  Struggling with the memories.  They’re a punishment all their own, aren’t they?  You’d forget it all if you could, but you can’t because it’s a stain on your soul.  These things you wish with all your heart you never saw and never did are a part of you, and they come back and back, over and over again.  A ritual penance.”  John’s eyes flash, and fresh tears are building.  “You were lucky at least.  They took your memories away.  You could forget what you did.”

Bucky can’t even bring himself to respond.  That’s fucking bullshit.  Yes, they took his memories.  They also took his body.  They took his identity, his autonomy.  His will and his sense of right and wrong.  His capacity to feel.  Like this old bastard said, _they took his soul._   And getting that back?  It’s been like burning in a lake of fire all its own.  Reclaiming what was stolen _requires_ remembering, and that’s brought him to here and now and this hell all around him.

“And it’s even worse because she hasn’t let me forget,” John snaps.  “When she died, her soul didn’t go to rest.  It came to _me._   She’s the very essence of hate of now.  You know.  You’ve felt it.”  Bucky has.  Already he knows it has scarred him forever.  “All her power, wrapped up in this darkness.  It’s been with me for sixty years, searching for an outlet for pain and rage.  Searching for vengeance.   Demanding its due.  I have _ached_ with this for so long.  She’s not at peace, so I can’t be at peace.  For years and years and _years,_ I’ve carried her with me, and I thought for the longest time that it was never going to end.”  He sighs, gathering himself.  “Then, a couple weeks back…  There you are.  On trial in front of the entire world.  Senate hearings.  News reports.  So much talk, discussions about culpability, exigent circumstances, brainwashing and mind control…  All I could hear were the excuses, the ones I made myself despise and ignore.  And there’s Captain America standing in front of Congress, in front of us all, and saying it wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky shook his head.  “So you hunted us down?  Found out we bought this house?  Lied and laid in wait until we were comfortable?  Hurts more that way, doesn’t it.  Letting us have a taste of what we wanted before ripping it away.”  John says nothing.  He looks torn, maybe between shame and frustration.  Bucky explodes.  “Steve had nothing to do with me killing her!  He has _nothing_ to do with this!”

“I know,” John says between gritted teeth.

“Then make her let him go!  I hurt her.  I know that and I regret it.  I do.  So if she wants me, I’m here.  I’m here!”  He grabs John’s shoulders again.  The old man flinches, but Bucky doesn’t back down.  He stares in his eyes.  “Make her let Steve go.  He’s innocent.”

“He loves you,” John hisses.  “So he can’t be innocent.”

 _“He’s innocent!”_ Bucky rages.  “And you dragged him into this.  You can’t blame me for that.  I’ve done evil, _been evil,_ but there’s one thing I know now, one constant in my life, one truth.  I’ll _never_ hurt him again.  _Never.”_   That’s thrumming inside him, powerful and alive, more powerful that his fear, than his fury, than the damage done to him.  It’s pulsing inside him with every fast beat of his heart, this conviction.  “So if that’s what she wants to get her vengeance, it’s not happening.”

“She wants you to kill him!” John hisses.  “She wants you to do to him what you did to her.  To us.  She wants you to _feel_ it!”

“Didn’t you hear me?  I won’t!”

“She’ll make you.”

Bucky’s not having it.  “No, she won’t.  She can’t.  For Christ’s sake, you need to help me.  You want to atone?  Find absolution?  Then tell me what to do!  Get her away from Steve!  Get her to let him go.  He’s…  He’s the only good thing left, the only thing worth saving.  He’s _everything._   Do you understand me?”

“I can’t make her stop!” John returns desperately.  Spittle flecks from his lips into Bucky’s face as he completely loses his composure.  He seems ghost-like himself, so pale in the fog, eyes rheumy and unnatural.  “Don’t you see?  I never thought she’d go this far!  I never thought she’d use him to hurt you.  She’ll make him, if she can’t make you.”  Bucky’s blood goes cold.  _No._   Sobs twist John’s stammering words.  “I thought it’d be alright, that I could live with this because I’ve lived with it for so long…”

“Don’t you fucking _see_?”  Bucky shakes him, horrified at how awful every part of this is.  “You said it yourself.  It goes on and on.  It doesn’t end, not unless we end it.”  The goddamn futility.  The circularity.  HYDRA’s enduring evil, perpetrated through its victims.  “I refuse to _be_ their victim anymore.  I refuse to let what they did to me define me.  So how do we stop her?  How do we finish this?”

John snivels.  All the sudden the hate that fueled him…  It’s gone, and he’s just an old man, old and bent and broken by his crimes.  Bucky lets him go, and he sinks onto his cane.  “I can’t…” he whispers.  “I can’t live with it anymore…  I just want to die.  God, please take me.  Please.  Take me!”  He says it over and over again, like some desperate mantra.  A prayer and a plea.  “Take me…  Let me die…  Let me die…”

Bucky doesn’t have it in him to cry for this man.  He simply lets him go, lets him crumble.  There’s no help here.

Breathing heavily, he turns back to the house.  It’s rising into the mist, into the darkening sky.  Storm clouds are thickening once more and rolling closer.  He takes a deep breath.  _I’m coming, Steve._

Then he heads up the porch and opens the door.

_This ends now._

* * *

The house doesn’t want him.  It’s never wanted him.  But it lets him in yet again, lets him pass.  It feels like it’s holding its breath as it does.  He’s holding his breath too as he steps inside, as he closes the front door behind him and seals himself in with the devil.

It’s absolutely, painfully silent, so silent that Bucky feels as though he’s stepped out of this world and into somewhere else, _something_ else.  It’s unnatural, and this pervasive sense of _wrongness_ permeates the air and everything he sees.  This beautiful, spacious, regal old house.  The nice furniture Tony bought.  The couches and tables and rugs and paintings.  All their hopes and dreams of a quiet, normal life.  It’s all tainted, corrupted, _drowning_ in her hate.  He can see shadows crawling over everything, shadows and water soaking into fabric and running down onto the floor.  _It’s not real._   He tells himself that over and over again as he chances a step into the main entry way.  The sodden rug there squishes under his sneakers.  _It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real…_  

“Steve?” he calls.

There’s no answer.  The quiet sound of his cautious footfalls feels deafening.  Bucky swallows down his fear and ventures deeper.  As he goes down the hallway to the kitchen, more water runs down the walls and drips from the ceiling.  It’s cold, ugly, soaking into everything.  Bucky pulls in a deep breath and carries onward.  This is a trap, and he knows it, but there’s no choice.  He can’t hide in a room this time.  He _never_ should have done that to begin with.  He’s no coward, not now, and the only way to fight this is to face the demon at the heart of it.

The demon who’s taken over the man he loves.

Steve’s in the kitchen.  Of course he is.  Bucky quietly sidesteps a spot near the entrance where water is spilling in a constant stream from the ceiling to the floor.  There are more of those in his way, and he walks around each of them, trying not to take his eyes off Steve where Steve’s standing at the island with his back to him.  _God._   This is fucking horrifying, most definitely the scariest thing he’s ever experienced.  “Steve?” he calls again, shaking water from his hand where he got too close to the cascade spilling from the ceiling.  Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.  “Steve…”

“Took you long enough to come back,” Steve comments.  He doesn’t turn around, and his voice is low, angry.  “You missed lunch.”

Bucky stops just at the edge of the island.  There are knives there.  _Every_ knife in the house, laid out on the granite.  Paring knives and steak knives and bread knives.  Short and wide and long and serrated.  The blades are bloody, like someone has tested each to determine which is the most to his liking.

The chef’s knife is noticeably absent.  Bucky breathes shallowly as he sees it’s in Steve’s hand, and Steve’s working the edge of it against his own thigh.  It’s cutting, deep enough to slice through his jeans and into his skin.  There’s blood staining the khaki there, rolling down his leg, running across his bare foot and mixing with the water on the tiled floor.  Swallowing down his fear and revulsion, Bucky tears his gaze back up Steve’s body, to the back of his head.  Some part of him vaguely hoped that he would come into the house and find Steve back to normal, safe and free of her… “Steve?”

“Pretty fucking rude, taking off like that.”  Steve turns, looks over his shoulder at Bucky.  His eyes are still dead, empty, dull.  They’re even grayer now, not even a hint of that pretty sky blue, as if she has an even firmer hold on Steve’s mind and soul.  If the vitriol in Steve’s voice is any indication, she does.  “But then you’ve always been a selfish prick.”

 _It’s not Steve.  It’s not Steve.  It’s not it’s not it’s not…_   Bucky stays calm, refusing to watch Steve cut himself, refusing to acknowledge the bloody array of knives and the red all over Steve’s hands.  They’re only hope is him staying calm, staying grounded in the truth.  The truth that they love each other.  “Let him go,” he orders.

“Let who go?”

And he’s not playing her game.  “Let him go.  He’s not the one you want.  He’s not the one who hurt you.”

“You think so, huh?” Steve sneers.  He turns around more.  God, there are slashes all down his arms.  Deep ones, criss-crossing his skin in a gruesome pattern.  His shirt’s ripped and red.  Bucky can hardly stand to look, grimacing and fighting nausea.  “I seem to recall you shooting me and stabbing me and beating my face in.”

“Steve knows that wasn’t my fault,” Bucky says carefully.  He’s got to get those knives away and disarm Steve.  The problem is he and Steve are pretty evenly matched.  They’re both super soldiers and expert combatants, with practically superhuman endurance, speed, and strength.  Any fight that breaks out between them won’t be easy to win or even survive if Steve attacks him with lethal force.  He can’t let this dissolve into violence, even if the air is dripping with it like the water falling from the ceiling and the blood splattering onto the floor.  He chances taking a small step forward.  “Give me the knife.  Please.”

The knife’s tip comes up, and tiny blood droplets fling forward to spot Bucky’s shirt.  He flinches but doesn’t retreat or make any sudden movements.  “It _was_ your fault,” Steve corrects, his voice agitated.  “I’m not making excuses for you anymore!”

“Steve _knows_ it wasn’t my fault,” Bucky insists again.

“Liar!  When the fight was over, and Project Insight was done for, you could have stopped!”  Steve’s voice shakes in rage.  “You could have, but you kept hitting me.  That was you, lashing out.  All that anger spilling out behind the mask, behind the programming.  The fucking Winter Soldier, killing because that’s all you know and that’s what you love.”

Bucky refuses to be daunted.  And he refuses to talk to Steve like this is _Steve_.  It’s not!  “Steve knows.  You’re the liar.  You’re trying to get us to fight.  That’s what you’ve wanted all along.  You’ve been trying to make me kill him the same way I killed you.  You want me to hurt him like you were hurt.  Well, I won’t.  I won’t!”

She pours it on thicker, preying on all of Bucky’s doubts again and using Steve’s intimate knowledge to do it.  “You think I love you?  I could _never_ love you.  Maybe I did once, but I don’t now.  The man I loved before is dead and has been for seventy years.”  _God._ “I’ve been taking care of you because someone has to.  You’re too fucked up to ever rejoin society.  You have to see that.  You’re a monster, and there’s no denying that, no rehabilitating you.  I’m taking a fucking hit for the team, keeping you close, bringing you here where you can’t hurt anyone else.  My goddamn cross to bear.”

“Stop it,” Bucky hisses.  “Steve loves me.  I know he does.”

“I’ve just been telling you that to keep you happy,” Steve says cruelly.  “I told you that so many times.  When are you going to listen?  Huh?”  This perversion shakes his head and spits out what Steve said before, only it’s all wrong, said so condescendingly.  “I just want you to be okay.  I just want you to feel good.  I just want you to be _happy_ , Buck.”

“Shut up!  You’re lying!”

“I don’t love you,” Steve hisses, and the knife slicing back down, jabbing into Steve’s thigh again with a wash of bright red.  Steve doesn’t react at all, but Bucky imagines him screaming inside, screaming where she’s letting him feel the pain.  “I can’t love you now.  Never.”

“Stop, stop, stop!”

“I _hate_ you!”

After everything that’s happened, all of the accusations and condemnation thrown at him, it’s too much to bear, the _one_ stalwart supporter he’s had betraying him.  _“Shut up!”_ he screams.  “He wouldn’t say that.  You’re making him say that!  Let him go!”

“I’m tired of holding your hand,” Steve snaps viciously.  The knife digs and digs.  “Tired of protecting you, defending you, lying through my fucking _teeth_ for your sake.  Everything I sacrificed for you.  I laid down my life for you.  I gave up what I loved for you.  And then all I wanted was to come here and live peacefully and you can’t even let me do that.”

“Let him go,” Bucky begs, his voice breaking with barely controlled sobs.  “Please.  Please!  I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!  Just don’t hurt him…”

“It’s too–”  The knife cuts.  “–fucking–”  Deeper and deeper.  “–late!”

Bucky can’t stand it anymore.  He lunges, grabs Steve’s wrist, shoves the blade away from his lacerated, mutilated flesh.  Steve shrieks his frustration, shoving Bucky back, but Bucky doesn’t let go, and they end up wrestling at the island.  Bucky’s metal arm whirs, the plates shifting as he adjusts his grip to pull harder.  Steve snarls inhumanly, yanking to get control of the knife, and for what feels like forever, neither of them can win.  Panic twists Bucky’s gut.  He has to stop this.  If they fight, if she gets what she wants…  He twists and rams his elbow into Steve’s midriff.  He does it with enough force to kill a normal person, but it just knocks the wind out of Steve, and that second of distraction is enough to yank his wrist a way it’s not supposed to go.  The knife clatters to the floor.

But Steve’s fast, pivoting and ramming his fist right into Bucky’s face.  It’s strong.  Brutal.  Bucky knows that Steve held back on the helicarrier that day, fought hard enough to oppose Bucky but not hurt him.  This isn’t that.  This is meant to cause pain, to damage.  The blow makes his mouth fill with blood when his teeth gnash his tongue, and he’s back-pedaling, scrambling to get away.  He’s not going to hit back.  _He’s not going to hit back._

Steve has no such reservations, not under her control.  And he’s fast, fierce, landing a succession of quick, sharp blows to Bucky’s chest and sides.  Bucky brings his arms up to defend himself, and some of the harder punches strike metal rather than flesh.  It still vibrates his whole body, his teeth grinding together as he struggles to hold himself back, struggles to hold steady.  A harsh jab batters his kidneys, and another drives him into the counter.  The granite edge is sharp to his back, bruising, and Steve bears down on him, lips pulled back in a hideous snarl, face red, eyes _empty._   His hands reach for Bucky’s neck.  “Stop,” Bucky gasps, scrambling to protect himself.  There’s no leverage, and his feet skid and slip on the drenched floor.  “Stop, Steve!  _Stop!”_

Steve doesn’t stop.  He knees Bucky right in the groin, and the pain is crippling.  Tears flood his eyes, and in the second of his floundering, Steve’s grabbing him by his left wrist.  His grip is crushing, maybe enough to dent and damage the reinforced plating of his arm, and he’s pulling, yanking, _throwing_ Bucky across the island.  Bucky slams into it hard, knocking everything off as he slides to the other side and gracelessly tumbles to the floor.

Something cuts into him.  He cries out, rolling onto his side and scrambling to his feet.  He can feel something lodged in his lower back, and hot agony spreads like poison up and down his body.  He reaches behind him and pulls the paring knife free from his flesh.  It hurts coming out, too, and blood is spilling down into the waistband of his jeans.  He knows he’s bleeding bad.  He can feel it’s serious, not enough to kill him but definitely enough to hamper him.  Enough to hurt.  And the pain and the fear rise up in a tidal wave.  It would take nothing to let himself be swept away in it, to let go…

 _No._   He sets the blood-soaked knife back to the island and looks up.  Steve’s staring at him, eyes narrowed, breathing fast.  He crouches and retrieves the chef’s knife.  “Pick it up,” he orders.

 _God._   “No,” Bucky whispers.  He shakes his head emphatically.  “No.”

“Pick it up.”  Steve lifts the bloody blade and points it at Bucky.  “Right now.  We’re settling this.”

“I won’t fight him.  I won’t.  You can’t make me.”

That’s treated like a dare, it seems, because the chef’s knife winks wetly as it comes back to Steve’s body.  There’s no warning, no hesitation, no chance at all to stop it.  Steve _stabs himself._   Right in the belly, below his ribcage.  She can’t control Steve’s expression this time, and he cries out in pain as he does it, and Bucky screams.  _“Stop!”_

The knife comes free with a sick spray of red.  Steve gasps, blinks and blinks, freeing tears.  There’s a hint of blue, frightened, panicked _blue,_ and Bucky can see she’s struggling to hold onto him.  _Please, God, Stevie, get away from her…  You’re stronger than she is.  Overpower her.  Stop her!_

But Steve can’t.  He blinks again, and that awful, dead, gray glaze is back to his eyes, and the sneer twists his lips.  “One of us is dying today,” he says on a shivery, excited breath.  The knife twists up, and now he’s holding it right at his own throat.  The sharp, bloody edge is pressed to vulnerable skin.  The threat couldn’t be clearer.

If Bucky doesn’t engage, doesn’t fight, she’ll make Steve kill himself.

Suddenly there’s no choice.  No other way out.  But Bucky doesn’t submit to the inevitability, to the cold sense of hopelessness in his gut.  “Please don’t make me do this,” he whispers.  “Please.  I love him.”

Steve – the ghost holding Steve hostage – laughs.  “You aren’t good enough to love anyone.”

Bucky chokes on a sob.  _“I love him.”_

The sadistic mirth flees those empty eyes as if she’s realizing Bucky’s not going to give in like she wants.  Steve doesn’t blink now.  He doesn’t waver.  It takes Bucky back to a moment not long ago, a moment on a helicarrier rising into the sky with a long, empty gangway between Captain America and the Winter Soldier.  But this isn’t a fight between two super soldiers on opposing factions.  It’s just Steve and Bucky.

“Steve, please…  Please hear me…”

“Pick up the knife,” Steve hisses, digging the long edge of the blade into his throat.  _“Now.”_

Clearly there’s no choice.  Bucky reaches for the island where the paring knife is and grabs it.  It feels like a failure, more than any other failure has before it.  The water rains down around them, pours from the ceiling and the walls, soaking the floor.  Like a deluge of tears.  It’s slow and loud and monumental.  Enough tears to mark a lifetime of suffering.

Then Steve attacks, charging toward him, and the endless moment snaps into horrific motion.  The chef’s knife slashes toward him, and Bucky jumps back and the blade slices through air instead of his throat.  Steve’s quick to try again, and Bucky staggers blocking it, not expecting such a fast move.  He’s never seen Steve fight with a knife before, or fight _like this_ , so unrestrained and with such deadly force.  It’s all the more horrifying for that.  Steve’s utterly merciless, the blade lightning quick, and it’s all Bucky can do to stay ahead of him.  It’s a wicked dance through the water, and Bucky’s stumbling, staggering, so off base that it’s remarkable he hasn’t been skewered.  He’s been removed from killing and the horrors of HYDRA long enough that this feels utterly wrong, and the damn irony of it, that the _Winter Soldier_ can’t handle a knife fight, would be hilarious if not for the fact that _Steve_ is the one who’s trying to eviscerate him.

Steve jabs the knife forward.  Bucky barely dodges, ignoring an opportunity to strike back.  He _can’t_ strike back.  Instead he catches Steve’s wrist on his next strike, twisting, trying to disarm him again.  He’s not successful this time, and Steve throws all his weight into driving Bucky back.  Bucky hits the wall near the entrance, the stab wound flaring with agony as it strikes the sheetrock.  The house seems to shake with the impact.  Ruthlessly Steve pins him there.  The knife is dancing above the hollow of his throat, twitching and trembling, as the two of them fight for dominance.  Steve pushes forward, Bucky pushes back, and for a horrific eternity the contest of strength goes on.

Finally Steve gains the edge, pushing even harder, and Bucky has only a split second of warning before the knife is thrust into the wall.  The blade goes right through the wet drywall like its paper.  It’s dragged to the right as Bucky pulls Steve to the side, using the fact that the knife is stuck to shift control.  He slips out from Steve’s hold, ducking under his arm when Steve’s forced to spend a moment getting the knife free of the wall.  Bucky twists, ramming his left hand into Steve’s back to try and stun him.  Horrors prod at his subconscious, the image of a metal fist pounding in Steve’s body, and it comes on so strong and so fast that he can’t shake it.  It’s almost paralyzing, the memories of the helicarrier, of the _rape,_ of stabbing Steve in the kitchen…

Whatever advantage he may have had is lost as he falters.  Steve’s wrenches his weapon free, and a wrangled scream bursts through Bucky’s lips as the knife dives into his side.  Steve’s glower is malicious, eyes alight with bloodlust, as he twists the blade and works it deeper.  That warm rush of pain saps Bucky’s strength, a tingly wave of misery spreading along every nerve in his body, and he staggers.  Steve yanks his knife free, and Bucky’s so desperate and delirious that he loses his control.  The monster surges, and he stabs back instinctively.

Steve cries out, the much smaller paring knife sinking into his shoulder to the hilt.  Bucky gasps, horrified at what he’s done.  “No!” he groans, backing away into the wall behind him, shaking his head.  He cages the anger again, shame and horror forcing it back into the darkness.  “No!  I won’t!  _I won’t!”_

“I will,” Steve gasps, voice twisted beyond recognition.  He reaches up, yanks the paring knife free, and tosses it aside.  Fresh blood pours from the laceration, spreading down his shirt.  He howls in rage, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Bucky’s jacket.  Then he’s throwing him again, back across the island.  Bucky slams into the cabinets on the other side, and his head smacks hard into the counter.  Doors are knocked free from their hinges.  Glass breaks.  Plates shatter and fall.  Bucky falls with them, crumpling onto the tiles.  He lays there, shivering and hurting and bleeding and wordlessly begging for salvation.  Praying to a God he stopped believing in long, long ago because there’s nothing else left.  No hope.  No chance.

He’s not good enough to save Steve.  He can’t even save himself.

The haze clings to his vision for what seems to be forever.  Then he blinks, whimpering and wracked with pain.  Bare feet are coming closer, uncaringly walking right on shards of broken glass.  Steve looms over him.  Bucky can’t hardly focus on him, the blurry image stubbornly refusing to take a single position.  Steve tsks, shaking his head.  Then he drops to a crouch beside him.  “Can’t believe I was ever afraid of you,” he says.  “What the hell was wrong with me?”

Bucky closes his eyes against the pain.  He wants to stay down.  He _needs_ to stay down.  He’s hurt badly but not so severely that he can’t continue the fight.  He _knows_ that, just how much his body can take and still function.  But if he gets up…  _Please let this be enough for her.  Please._

It’s not going to be.  “Fucking pathetic,” Steve spits, and rage is burning brighter.

 _Please…_ “Fight her…”  Bucky trembles.  He can feel the blood slowly draining from his body.  “Fight her, Steve.  You know me.  You love me.  _Please…”_

That angers Steve more, and he’s grabbing Bucky’s hair.  Bucky whines at the rough twist as Steve tangles his fingers in tightly.  He drags Bucky to his feet, and Bucky follows, has to in order to keep his scalp attached to his skull.  Steve gives a deep, guttural cry, and slams Bucky face first into the counter.  He could have stopped it, but he doesn’t, and pain explodes along his forehead.  His nose cracks with a spray of blood, and he’s choking, debilitated by the pain.  And there’s no relief.  He’s wheezing and sagging, but Steve’s already grabbing his right arm.  He whips Bucky around, cracking his elbow with the force of it.  Bucky bangs into the refrigerator.  The impact is jarring, shaking his bones, and he goes rigid, trying to push back as Steve slams him into it again, yanking at his hair anew.  “Stop!” he gurgles through the blood in his mouth.  “Stop!  _Steve!”_

Steve screams in fury, beating Bucky almost senseless.  Feebly Bucky shoves him away, punches back, but his real arm is too damaged to use and he refuses to use the metal one.  He’s lost his chance to mount any sort of useful defense anyway.  Steve’s too strong, feeding off of her madness, growing more violent in her anger and hatred and power.  It’s too late.  He braces his forearm across Bucky’s neck, using his weight to keep Bucky trapped against the fridge.  It’s just like that waking nightmare, only Steve’s the one threatening and Bucky’s the helpless victim.  Bucky can hardly breathe with the pressure.  All he can taste blood, sweat, tears.  Water is dripping down everywhere.

And the gory knife comes to rest right before his wide eyes.  “Whattya think, Buck?” Steve whispers.  The blade threatens, a finger’s length from his face.  “Think I should do it?”  Bucky gasps a sob.  The tip sinks lower, down his chest, teasingly light over his sternum.  “Put you out of your misery?”  It catches on his shirt, tearing and slicing as it settles near his belly.  “End it all?  Do my duty and get justice for everything you’ve done.”

“There’s – there’s no justice,” Bucky whimpers.  “Never can be.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Steve declares, staring at Bucky’s heaving stomach as he pants and struggles for air, watching as his tender skin extends and nearly brushes the knife only to be pulled in again when he inhales.  He seems mesmerized.  “Guess this is just the end of the line then.”  Then he starts slicing, cutting, _gutting._

And Bucky screams and shoves him away with all the strength he has left.  Steve’s silent, deadly, as he rounds on him, backhands him viciously, and Bucky’s head snaps back into the refrigerator with brutal force.  He falls again.  He sees water splashing onto the floor, mixing with the blood all over Steve’s feet.  Then he blacks out.

_“Bucky?”_

The forest smelled wet, the scent of rain on pine.  Despite being summer, Bucky was cold and achy.  He opened his eyes to see Steve’s face hovering over him.  The tent was small, hardly big enough for the both of them to share (and definitely not secure or private enough for them to be doing it).  Yet here he was, in Captain America’s tent, sharing Captain America’s bedroll.

_Steve’s Captain America._

He could live a thousand lives, go through the insanity of the last few days over and over and over again, and he knew he’d never accept that.  Not totally.  The little Steve he loved was suddenly this big man, brimming with brawn and vigor and health.  The little Steve whose body he knew inside and out was suddenly strange and different.  The Steve who was the center of his world, the only thing good and pure and unchangeable…

Steve had changed completely.

 _“Bucky, are you okay?  You were crying in your sleep.”_  

Well, not completely.  Steve was watching him with nothing but naked worry in his eyes.  Those were the same.  The big, innocent, blue eyes.  The handsome shape of his face.  The plush lips pulled into a concerned frown.  His open, giving heart.  This was still Steve, and Bucky knew it, but in the wake of what he went through at Azzano…  He felt lost.  Anchorless.  _“Bucky, c’mon…”_

_“Why’d you do it?”_

Steve’s confused.  _“What?”_

Bucky’s head was full of dark thoughts and difficult questions, of pain and doubt.  Full of nightmares like the one he’d just had.  Full of this sense of not being _himself,_ though he couldn’t put his finger on what was different.  HYDRA did something to him; that he knew for sure.  Something dark and wrong, and he felt it deep in his core.  He was different.  This was where it started, where HYDRA had first touched him and begun turning him.  He knows that now.  From the moment Steve pulled him off that examination table in HYDRA’s factory, everything had changed.  While HYDRA had been pumping its poison into him, Erskine and Phillips and the SSR had filled Steve with an elixir that fixed his broken body and turned him into a symbol of strength and courage for the world over.

And Steve was here.  _Here._

Anger welled up inside Bucky, feeding off the pain lingering from his dream and the memories of the torture he’d endured.  _“Why’d the hell did you do this to yourself?”_

Steve still didn’t understand.  Of course he didn’t.  _“Do what?”_

 _“Oh, come off it, Rogers,”_ Bucky snapped, rolling over to get away.  He couldn’t stand the awful feeling inside, and he couldn’t stand Steve’s obliviousness.  Like when he got into fights.  Like when he got hurt.  He _never_ realized what that did to Bucky.  This put all that to shame, because _this_ – this super soldier serum or whatever it was – was finally arming him with the capacity to truly be a hero.  _“I leave you back home, tell you to go to art school, to take care of yourself,_ not _to do anything stupid, and you go and do the stupidest thing you could have done.”_

Bucky could practically feel Steve’s frown.  _“Bucky–”_

 _“No!”_   He turned back on his side, glaring at Steve with teary eyes.  He knew they needed to be quiet, discreet.  If anyone found them like this…  _“No.  I don’t want to hear it.  What, did you wait all of a couple minutes before you got yourself into this?  Were you so desperate to join up that you signed yourself up for whatever the hell they needed?  Made yourself into a – a human test subject for their crazy experiment?”_

_“It wasn’t like that–”_

_“You could have_ died _,”_ Bucky snarled.  _“You’re damn lucky you didn’t!”_   Steve had the self-awareness to look ashamed.  Guilt bubbled up inside of Bucky, too, but he couldn’t stop.  _“And then you came out here when you should’ve stayed in the States, defied orders and flew by yourself behind enemy lines, took on an entire HYDRA base_ alone– _”_

 _“I did that for you,”_ Steve declared.

_“I never wanted you to!  I wanted you safe!  Safe, Steve!  That’s what’s important to me!”_

_“And do you think it’s any less important to me to know you’re safe?”_   Steve shook his head, hurt bright in his beautiful eyes.  _“Do you think I’d be okay not being sure you were even alive?  I couldn’t be, Buck, and I couldn’t let you do this alone!  I had to find a way to get over here!”_

 _“Right, because it’s always so fucking important that you do the right thing, that you sacrifice as much as everyone else.”_   Bucky lost control of his voice, and it cracked, and his eyes flooded with tears.  _“Gotta enlist.  Gotta fight every fight, no matter how much it hurts.”_

 _“No,”_ Steve said, leaning down closer.  _“I have to be with you.”_   Bucky shook his head, tried to roll away again, but Steve didn’t let him.  Steve could stop him now.  Two muscular arms with strength beyond anything Bucky had ever seen come down around him, bracketing him, and two blue eyes with power Bucky had always known were burning in the low light, holding his gaze and not backing down for a second. _“Yeah, I need to do my part and no less than my part, but I also need to stay at your side.  That’s who I am.  I don’t care how dangerous it is.  You would have done the same for me, whatever it took, and you know it.”_   Bucky’s pain quieted because that was true.  It was more than true.  It was absolute, immutable, intrinsic.  They stood by one another, did _everything_ to protect each other. 

Steve sighed gently, seeing that he was making his point.  _“You told me once that we_ _handle everything together, and that includes taking on all the bad shit in the world.  This is some really bad shit.”_

Bucky couldn’t help a wry chuckle.  _“No kiddin’.”_

 _“Worst ever.  But together we can handle it.  Always, Buck.  You take care of me, and I take care of you.”_   He gave a lopsided grin.  _“Just finally got myself a body that can actually do it.”_

Bucky laughed again, but this was more twisted up with a ragged sob.  _“Puts a Greek god to shame.”_ Steve smiled.  Bucky reached up to run his thumb across Steve’s cheek, slipping it over Steve’s soft, full lips.  Steve kissed it tenderly.  Bucky got better control of his emotions, breathing easier.  He smiled, too.  _“If anyone deserves it, is worthy of something like this, it’s you.  Even if I hate you for risking yourself.”_

 _“You don’t hate me,”_ Steve said with a little smug smile.

Bucky felt warm for the first time in days.  _“You sure about that?”_ he teased.

Steve leaned down and kissed Bucky deeply, a sweet, loving affirmation.  _“Yep.”_ Then he draped his huge, new body over Bucky, tucking his head of tousled blond hair right under Bucky’s chin like he always used to when he was little, settling into Bucky’s embrace like he was made to fit there.  He was, even like this.  Bucky wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head.  _“I’d lay down my life for you,”_ Steve murmured.

Bucky’s eyes crack open.  He can’t focus at first.  Everything is wet, dark, and he hurts excruciatingly. Vaguely he feels himself moving, something pulling on his legs, his hands dragging across a slick floor that catches and tugs at his skin.  He’s bleeding, tastes the coppery thickness of it coating his tongue, feels sticky, liquid heat on his skin.  His entire body is throbbing, the wounds on his back and in his side, his broken arm.  He nearly falls back into unconsciousness.

But he doesn’t.  He can’t.  His thoughts are scattered and confused, and the pain is crippling, but he knows where he is.  _Upstairs in the hallway._   He knows what’s happening.  _Steve’s dragging me._   He knows where they’re going.

_The bathroom._

He blinks free tears and struggles to get his muscles to work.  He’s damaged and disoriented enough that even with the truth pounding through him – _Steve’s going to kill me the same way I killed her –_ he can’t move.  He can’t do anything.

And then he feels the floor change, switching abruptly from wood to cold tile.  It’s wetter.

There’s water running.  This is it.  This is where it ends, where she gets what she wants.

_I would lay down my life for you._

But he waits.  He stays limp, pliant, seemingly unconscious.  He finally knows what he needs to do, is absolutely certain of it, but he also knows he’s going to get only one chance.  So a couple seconds go by, filled with Steve yanking and pulling him across the floor toward the tub.  Blood smears and water drips and Bucky searches for strength and calm.  _Save Steve.  Protect him._

_End this the only way you can._

Steve drops his legs.  The shock of that is jarring.  This is happening.  It’s really happening.  The fear is almost enough to shake Bucky’s resolve, but he holds fast, holds tight to what he knows is true, brings forward the cool, mechanic serenity of the Winter Soldier to keep him steady.  He flutters his eyelids, lets out a pathetic whine that’s not entirely fake, and spots the knife.  Steve’s still carrying it, just as he hoped.  It’s in his right hand, covered in slick red.  Bucky spots it and takes in a deeper breath.  He can’t fail now.

_I can’t fail._

Steve grabs under his armpits and hauls him up to get him in the tub.

_Now!_

Bucky summons all his remaining strength and attacks.  He twists and shoves Steve back hard and fast, planting his metal palm on his chest and driving him over the porcelain edge of the tub.  The sudden strike takes Steve by surprise, and he stumbles, trips, and ends up in the water.  There’s a huge splash of cold liquid, a spray of it everywhere, and Steve immediately starts struggling wildly, flailing in the bath.  The tub cracks.  The house shudders and quakes.  Lights flicker.  Bucky tries to keep Steve down, throwing his weight into the tub as leverage, but there’s no hope for it.  He’s too weak, too injured, and he’s not willing to do what she wants.  _Never_.

So instead he goes for the knife.  Snatching Steve’s wrist with his metal hand, he bangs it hard against the side of the tub.  The feeling of the bones bending under the force of it is revolting, but he does it again when one strike isn’t enough.  A couple more has the knife clattering away across the tiles, splattering blood as it does, and he gives up holding Steve down to scramble after it.  He stumbles and ends up on his knees, metal hand shaking as he reaches.  Behind him Steve roars in rage, splashing loudly as he rights himself, and Bucky has only a breath and a blink to do what needs to be done.

His fingers close around the hilt.  He twists, turns back to Steve.  The bathroom seems to bend around them, blood and water everywhere, and Steve’s coming at him with madness in his eyes.  He looks like a nightmare, drenched and soaked in red.  “I won’t hurt him!” Bucky declares again.  The house rocks and everything twists and he swears he can hear her screaming.  He doesn’t waver.  “And I won’t let him hurt me!  If you want me, you can have me, _but you won’t do this to him._ ”

_I won’t let him become what I am._

He doesn’t hesitate.  Not a moment of doubt or fear impedes him.  He simply grips the knife hard with this metal fingers and brings it to his own chest, to his heart.  He understands now.  Why Steve threw down his shield on the helicarrier.  Why he let him pummel him, pin him, nearly kill him.  Why he gave up everything, sacrificed _everything_.  It was to save Bucky’s soul.

_I’ll lay down my life for you._

It doesn’t even hurt as he drives the knife in deep.

Dying’s a peculiar thing.  Despite how close he’s come to it in the past, all the times he’s walked the edge between this life and whatever comes next, now that he’s finally crossed over he’s surprised at how calm everything feels.  Idly he knows it’s not that way at all.  The world quickly becomes hazy, dim, and time slows to this strange crawl, but he can feel the hot blood pour from the hole in his chest as he pulls the knife back out, hear the blade clatter to the floor when his weak fingers drop it.  His pulse is loud in his ears, this weird whoosh of sound that’s slowing and softening.  Bucky blinks wearily, sees Steve staring in utter shock.  The emotionless glaze finally fades from Steve’s eyes.  They’re blue again.  They’re blue. “Bucky?” Steve whispers.

_She let him go._

Bucky smiles in relief as he topples forward.  Steve catches him, and the feel of Steve’s familiar arms around him, of _Steve_ as he should be, is like nothing else.  It’s more than he’s ever deserved, and Bucky sinks into it joyously.  Steve’s warmth and Steve’s strength.  Steve’s love.  Steve’s stammering, horrified and panicked.  “Oh, God, Bucky…  Bucky, what did you do?  What is this?  Where – what happened?  What…  _Bucky!”_

Bucky closes his eyes as Steve lowers them both to the floor.  He can see Steve looming over him, bloody and beautiful, _free,_ and it’s all he needs. The pain’s nothing.  His own life is nothing.  There’s nothing more than this, nothing more important.

Steve’s eyes are full of pain, of terror.  He doesn’t understand.  “Bucky,” he gasps, laying a shaking bloody hand over the pulsing hole in Bucky’s chest.  He’s pressing down, trying to put pressure on it, trying in vain to keep Bucky’s blood in his body.  There’s no point.  Bucky knew what he was doing, where to stab.  His heart’s pierced.  The wound’s fatal.

There’s no stopping it.

And that’s the point.  This way, it ends.  It ends, and Steve won’t have his blood on his hands.  It ends, and Steve won’t know this hell that he’s lived, the hell of being forced to hurt other people against his will.  It ends, and neither of them has killed the other.  She doesn’t drag Steve into this horror.  She doesn’t get her vengeance, not at Steve’s expense, and Bucky atones for his crimes.  The cycle of pain and hate and rage and suffering…  _It all ends._

He’s not going to belong to HYDRA.  Not anymore.  Not ever again.

“Bucky,” Steve whimpers.  The look on his face – the helplessness and the confusion and the terror – is devastating, but it’ll be okay.  It has to be.  It _will_ be.  “Bucky, Jesus, what’s going on…  How…  _Why…”_

“Love you,” Bucky manages.  He can feel himself dying, his body going cold, his mind growing sluggish.  It’s okay.  “Couldn’t let you…”

“Bucky.”  Steve sobs brokenly.  Then he leans back, scrambles away, and Bucky can’t see where he’s going.  He can hear him shouting, though, his voice loud and desperate and breaking with emotion.  “Help me!  Someone!  I need help!”  There’s heavy thudding, wet splashing – Steve running – and Bucky opens eyes that keep stubbornly sliding shut.

She’s there, standing in her white nightgown, looking down on him.  He looks back, and he wants to say something, but he can’t.  Blood wells up in his throat, and he only chokes and gurgles.  His thoughts won’t form either, at least not into anything meaningful.  And Steve’s back anyway, blocking his view.  He’s got a towel, and he presses that over Bucky’s chest.  That little burst of pain is sudden and too much.  Bucky’s much colder now.  He gasps and closes his eyes.

“No, Bucky,” Steve pleads, pressing down as hard as he can.  A wet palm settles onto Bucky’s forehead, brushing his hair back frantically.  “Come on!  Come on!  Don’t do this!”

“It’s too late,” says another voice.  Bucky recognizes it, but he can’t put a name to it.

“No!  No!  You did this to him!  You did this!  I – I – for God’s sake, _help him!”_

“Steve, I…  I…” Bucky whispers.  He can hardly see now with the shadows sweeping in, with the pain and the ice pulling him down.  Steve’s leaning right over him, tears dripping onto Bucky’s face, frantic and horrified and railing against the inevitable.  Bucky wants to say something more, something to ease Steve’s broken heart, but he can’t.  The blood filling his mouth stops him, and as much as his spirit’s pulsing with all the love he feels for Steve, all the power that’s given him, it’s not enough to keep him here.

And Steve realizes it.  He’s crying frantically.  Bucky’s so sorry for that.  So sorry.

Still…  It all fades away, and he lets go.  Lets the water rush over him and take him down.

Only he opens his eyes again.  Something pulls him back, and he finds himself standing right above where Steve’s crouched, where Steve’s sobbing almost hysterically, where Steve’s holding his dead body tightly and suffering with anguish.  The world is full of mist, gray and ethereal and unreal.  Strange and blunted and upsetting.  It’s like he’s holding his breath, but there’s no air to breathe.  He _can_ feel, but there’s nothing _to_ feel.  He can see, but he can’t touch, can’t sense anything beyond the haze.

He’s dead.  He knows it.  He’s dead, and he’s lingering, watching in this unfold before his very eyes.

“Bucky, wake up!  Come on!  Wake up!”  Steve’s shaking him, shaking him hard, and his head lolls back.  Bucky can see his own half-lidded eyes, the gray orbs empty.  “Bucky, please!  Please don’t do this!  I don’t understand!  _I don’t understand!”_

“It was never meant to be like this.”  That voice comes again, soft and mired in regret, and there’s John.  Bucky turns and sees the old man walking deeper into the bathroom, his cane splashing through the water spilling onto the floor from the tub.  “I didn’t think he’d…  He said he loved you.  I didn’t believe him.”  Steve doesn’t seem to hear him or even notice him limping closer.  Tears bleed from John’s eyes, and he falls to his knees beside Steve, staring at Bucky’s lifeless body.  “This wasn’t what I wanted.  This doesn’t make it right!”

Steve wrenches away from him, holding Bucky’s body tighter, burying his face into his unmoving chest.  Bucky stares, breaking inside.  “Come on, Buck!” Steve begs.  “Don’t do this!  _Don’t leave me!”_   And then, because Steve never knows when to quit, he’s letting loose a keening cry, balling his hands together over the body’s breastbone, and pumping hard.  Doing CPR.  Trying _so hard_ to save him.

 _It’s already done._   Bucky blinks and looks up.  She’s still there, still watching.  He wonders for a moment if this is her doing, why he’s still here, trapped with her in this void, in this place between life and whatever comes after.  If she’s holding him here and making him witness Steve’s suffering as her final act of vengeance.

But that’s not the case.  Her eyes are finally free of the ever-present anger, soft with so much emotion.  Grief.  Regret.  Maybe she, too, is seeing what John’s seeing.  Ruin that wasn’t necessary.  Death that perhaps stops the torment but provides no solace or satisfaction.  Revenge that, in the end, only perpetuates the hellish nightmare.

 _No more._ “I’m sorry,” Bucky hears himself say.  She blinks, raising clear, seemingly innocent eyes from the awful scene between them.  She’s looking right at him, maybe seeing him for the first time.  Not as the Winter Soldier, either.  As the man beneath.  The man he once was and the man he was trying to become.  “I’m sorry for what I did to you.  I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Bucky, no, no…  Come on!  Breathe, damn it!  _Breathe!”_

“I’m so sorry.”  Bucky means it.  He means it with every fiber of his being.  “It’s not enough.  I know it’s not.  But it’s all I have now, and it’s yours.  My life, so that you don’t have to be in pain anymore.  Just please…  Just let him go.”  Steve clenches Bucky’s body tighter, losing his hope, shattering under the weight of realization.  His desperate, breathy cries fill the bathroom.  Bucky offers a soft, quivering smile.  “Please let him have peace.  I beg you.  And please…  Be at peace yourself.”

She just stares.

“It’s over,” John whispers between his sobs.  He reaches up a weathered hand, clutching at his chest, at his own heart.  “It’s over now.  I don’t want to live like this any longer.  Not without you.  Not without you!”  He says something in German, something Bucky can’t make out at first. 

But then he understands.  _“Amelie… please…  I love you.  Take me.”_

She _stares._   A tear slips down her face.

Then everything changes.  There’s soundless thunder, a great implosion inside Bucky, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

And when he opens them again, when he finally sucks in that breath of air it seemed he can no longer have, _life_ slams back into him.  It’s incredible, a rush unlike anything he’s ever known, powerful and overwhelming and vital.  He gasps, chokes, tastes blood and gags and everything comes all at once, the pain and the cold and the wet.  He feels it all from the very tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes.  His skin is tingling and his senses are screaming and his heart’s beating and he’s breathing and _his eyes are open–_

“Bucky?  Bucky!”

Steve’s right over him, filling his blurry vision.  “Bucky!  Oh, God, Buck…  God…”

Bucky’s too shocked to speak, too overcome to do _anything_ other than blink and breathe and _live._   Tears drip on his face, a salty shower of them.  He gasps as he’s lifted, wrapped up in quaking arms, pressed against a strong chest.  Steve’s heart is racing under his ear where his face is buried in wet cotton.  And Steve’s sobbing deeply into his neck, clutching hard.  Bucky shivers, the tremors uncontrollable, as he grasps back, newly returned strength thrumming in his arteries and bones and flesh.  He holds Steve as tightly as he can.  The wound in his chest…  It’s fading, closing, _healing._   He’s alive.

_She brought me back._

“You’re alright,” Steve whispers, his incredulous voice shaking in Bucky’s ear.  “You’re alright!”

He thinks he is.  He forces open his eyes, tries to focus.  Tries to see.  There’s only the bathroom, with the water still running and the tub overflowing.  The broken tiles and ripped shower curtain.  The streaks of blood and the evidence of the violent fight.

But she’s gone again.  She’s gone, like she was never there at all.  Gone for good.  Bucky can _feel_ it.

And John’s dead.  Bucky spots the old man’s body on the floor beside them.  He’s lying on his side, like the life has abruptly been sucked from him.  There’s a bloody mess on his chest, and his withered fingers are clenching the knife.  His eyes are the ones that are empty now, half-lidded and glazed, but he looks… tranquil.  _Peaceful._

Bucky shudders.

_One soul for another._

“Buck?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs.  He plants his metal hand on the floor for more leverage to push himself into Steve’s embrace.  His damaged arm barely functions, but he gets it firmer around Steve’s back, holding tight.  “Yeah, ’m okay.  I’m okay.”  He closes his eyes again and kisses Steve’s neck, against the strong, sure beat of his pulse there.  He breathes, lets it inside him, lets this moment fill him.  “I’m okay.  It’s over, Steve.  It’s over.”

They sit there a long time, holding each other.  Breathing.  Living.

The water slowly but surely washes the blood away.

* * *

_A few days later_  

The trees are bare by the time everything settles back down.  It’s colder now, late autumn, but things feel newer and brighter despite the perpetual gray skies and chilly, damp air.  They’re home.  Not the secluded house on the lake in the middle of the woods.  Not the little, quiet town in the middle of nowhere.  No, they’re back in the hustle and bustle of Avengers complex, and it feels surprisingly good.  It’s not the defeat it could have been.  Not by any stretch of the word.

After what they went through, it actually seems like nothing short of a miracle.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?”

Bucky turns to see Wanda stepping into the common kitchen.  She smiles warmly, heading to the island where Bucky’s loading up a tray full of breakfast foods.  He’s crafted some pancakes with blueberries which he thinks haven’t turned out half bad.  He’s also got eggs, bacon, and toast, and he’s made some sweet buns.

Wanda spots those where they’re sitting on a plate.  “Did you bake these?”

Bucky shrugs, turning to put the last of his now clean dishes on the drying rack.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Go ahead and have one, though I can’t vouch for them being any good.”

Wanda grins and chooses one of the buns.  They’re not perfect, a little unevenly sized and lopsided, but they still look good for a first attempt, he thinks.  Hell, he’s downright impressed with himself.  He’s also trying not to seem overly interested in her opinions.  He is, though.  Absolutely.  She takes a bite of the gooey, sugary treat and chews appreciatively before smiling even more.  “Oh, still warm.  Wow.  And delicious.”

“Yeah?”  _Yay._ Enthusiastically she nods, eating some more.  Bucky smiles, proud, but then lightly swats her hand away when she reaches for another with the first still half-eaten.  “Hey!”

“What?” she whines, mouth stuffed with dough.

“They’re for Steve,” Bucky huffs a little protectively and a lot facetiously.  “Hopefully they’ll satisfy his sweet tooth.”

Her grin softens, and she chews and swallows.  Concern makes its way back into her gaze.  “How is he?”

Bucky takes the last of the buns from the cooling rack and places them onto the plate.  “He’s fine.  Long recovered, basically, but that was a given with the serum.”  They both are, even though it’s only been a few days.  They’re both doing so very well.  He shakes his head.  “He doesn’t seem to remember anything, which is good.  And weird, I guess, since it makes me wonder if I wasn’t just crazy the whole time.”

“I doubt it,” Wanda quietly declares.  Mere minutes after Bucky’s miraculous return from the dead, the team arrived on the scene.  Apparently Sam couldn’t stand worrying anymore, and he, Tony, and Wanda flew from the Avengers complex to the house.  It was more than a little shocking to hear the roar of the quinjet in the silence.  Steve left Bucky laying on their bed and staggered to the deck off their bedroom just in time to see it landing in the front yard.  The others burst into the house to find them clinging to each other on their bed and a dead old man in the destroyed bathroom.  The whole thing was utterly surreal.  It was beyond any explanation, utterly beggaring belief, and as Sam and Tony helped the two of them limp out to the quinjet, neither Steve nor Bucky could manage a word despite the questions they were asked.  They were utterly shell-shocked, Steve’s arm tight around Bucky and Bucky grasping Steve’s bloodied shirt like a lifeline as Sam sat them down on the bench in the jet and tried to render some first aid.  They couldn’t speak, couldn’t focus, still couldn’t do much more than hold onto each other.  Even more worried, Sam ordered Tony to get them the hell out of there, away from the house, and Tony did so without question.

In the days since, everything has faded into something of a hazy nightmare.  They’ve moved back into their old suite in the Avengers complex without fanfare.  At Sam’s insistence, the team’s medical staff looked them both over thoroughly on top of tending to their injuries.  Nothing was overly serious, not even the places they’d both been stabbed.  With their respective serums healing them, even the deepest of lacerations were already on the mend just hours after being inflicted.  Therefore, aside from stitching some of the graver knife wounds shut, getting Bucky’s fractured arm in a cast, and bandaging them both enough to look like mummies, there wasn’t much they could do.  CAT scans and MRIs and bloodwork and endless tests revealed nothing out of the ordinary, not for either of them.  No tumors or clots or evidence of psychotropic drugs or illness.  There was _nothing_ to explain what happened, no abnormalities or signs of neurological damage or distress.  That was strange, but the uncanniest thing of all was how they were walking away from this so completely unscathed.

Not everyone is mollified, though.  Steve and Bucky were discharged from medical a couple days ago with instructions to rest and take it easy.  While they do that, the remainder of the team has been keeping close, Sam in particular.  He’s been deeply concerned and not doing much to hide it, but Bucky’s not sure there’s anything to be worried about now.  It really is over.  Steve and he are both safe, and they’re home.  The others are curious as to what happened of course, but they’re not pushing anything more than food and comfort on them.  Natasha’s offered an ear if they want to talk.  Clint’s brushed it off with his typical carefree manner, keeping things simple and easy-going.  Vision’s suggested further treatments for Bucky’s damaged psyche (which, after having a ghost rifling through his brain to handpick his worst nightmares to use again him, Bucky’s not too inclined to do).  Tony’s been quickly and silently repurchasing things for them, their clothes and items they left behind at the house.  They’ve never had much, so that makes it easier.  It’s nice not to have to think about going back to get anything.

Although the others _have_ been back.  Wanda, along with the rest of the team, returned to the house to investigate right after Steve and Bucky were brought back to the complex.  While Sam stayed at their sides, she went to see if she could determine what happened.  She couldn’t.  Not really, anyway.  As she explained to them later, she walked through the house with Iron Man and Vision protectively at her side.  Tony also scanned the entire place from top to bottom in search of anything unusual.  Vision’s keen senses and hyper intelligence were also put to use analyzing the situation.  Despite having so much power and technology behind them, they found nothing, nothing aside from the stark, awful evidence of the fight and the dead man up in the bathroom.  Of course, those things were pretty fucking striking, but Wanda couldn’t _sense_ anything else wrong.  No presence.  No aura of evil.  Subject 23 – _Amelie_ – was completely gone, and with her she seemingly took all of her pain, all of her power, and all of her hate.

That only made it feel all the more unreal.  If not for their wounds, the evidence of the fight, and John’s body, there’d be no sign at all that anything had happened.  The Avengers were concerned, and rightly so, but Bucky was reticent to talk about it more than the bare minimum.  It’s too harrowing, too difficult, _too personal,_ and he’s still not quite sure what was real and what wasn’t.  Some things, like the spirits of the Winter Soldier’s victims haunting the path back to the house, the water flooding the kitchen and the hallways, what he did to Steve in his dreams…  Those things _can’t_ be true.  But Steve being possessed?  Steve attacking him?

Clearly that happened, so it’s a damn good thing Steve doesn’t seem to remember much.  In fact, he’s blissfully ignorant of anything past the night Bucky spent in the guest room.  He says he recalls sitting outside the door, waiting and terrified for Bucky’s sake, but he doesn’t think he fell asleep.  He’s pretty sure he didn’t.  But after that, things just… _stopped_ for him.  There’s a gap in his memories where there’s just nothing.  That corresponds to when Bucky figured the spirit must have taken Steve’s mind.  Steve’s next clear recollection is the bathroom, is Bucky in his arms, bleeding to death.  For him, everything is a disjointed, jumbled mess.  He’s been told what occurred in vague terms ( _very_ vague terms), but the facts are just that to him: mere facts.  They’re bereft of any emotional implication or context.

And Bucky’s grateful for that.  For him, it’s not been so easy to process.  He’s still not sure how he feels.

“James?”

Wanda’s call pulls him out of his head.  “What?”

She gives a knowing smile.  “You’re drifting.  And you didn’t answer my question.”

Surely she knows the answer more fully than anything he can say.  “I’m feeling okay,” he offers with a shrug.  “Glad to be here.  That’s for sure.”

“How did it go?  Over in France.”

Bucky smiles more fully.  “It was good.  Went well.  It was…  Well, it was some closure, I guess, though I’m not sure that’s mine to have.”  He thinks back on the trip from which he and Steve just returned.  They flew with Tony yesterday to Amiens, the little town from where the Winter Soldier abducted Amelie sixty years ago.  Thanks to FRIDAY and Tony’s extensive resources and smarts, he was able to locate exactly where she once lived and discover her last name.  Her family is still there, what remains of them.  Her parents are long dead.  Her siblings, too.  A nephew and his family remains, and Bucky offered them condolences, told them that information had come to light regarding Amelie’s disappearance all those years ago.  He gave sparse details.  They didn’t recognize him, and he wasn’t quite brave enough to admit to them who he was or the role he had in Amelie’s death.  It was clear the conversation didn’t mean much to them anyway, and why should it?  In this little farming village, quaint and quiet and peaceful, the people are far removed from the hellish legacy of HYDRA.

It felt good, though, to tell them what happened to their aunt, so that they at least knew her story.  The man’s parents had apparently had “buried” her decades ago when she disappeared and never returned.  In the little town cemetery, there was a headstone devoted to her.  That was surprising and so comforting.  Bucky stood there, Steve at his side, Tony behind them, and sighed, feeling oddly at peace seeing that aged, weather rock with her name inscribed.  For all the pain she put him through, for all the torment and violation…  It seemed right.  And there they left John’s remains, which they had cremated.  Hopefully wherever the two of them were now, they were together.

Like he and Steve are together.

“It is yours.  You were as much of a victim as she was,” Wanda says, pulling him from his reverie once more.  He focuses on her.  “That’s the truth, James.”

 _Kindred spirits._ “Maybe,” Bucky concedes after a beat.  “I’m still not sure about that.  And I’m not sure why she did what she did.”  He sighs and looks down at his metal hand where it’s grasping the counter next to the breakfast he made and the buns he baked.  The questions that have been plaguing him for days are unsettled anew, swirling about his head.  _Did she realize I’m not the monster she thought I was?  Did she think I deserved a chance at redemption?  Did she do it for Johan, for herself?  For Steve?  Did she just want it all to end?_   Did Bucky sacrificing himself to save Steve demonstrate his worthiness in her eyes?  Was her sending his soul back into his body her way of granting him absolution?  Was it a way of freeing John from his hell?  Maybe she felt she made her point, or maybe she realized she took it all too far.  Maybe she realized it’s what Wanda just said, that they were both victims, both damaged and desecrated by HYDRA’s evil.

Or could it be something as silly and trite as love conquering evil?

He doesn’t know.  He’s starting to realize he never will. 

Either Wanda truly is reading his mind or the conclusion is simply obvious.  “Sometimes the best we can do is try to forget and move on,” she says, “and not take a second of anything for granted.  Whatever happened, whatever she wanted…  You and Steve are safe, and you’re here.  It’s over.  That’s enough, isn’t it?”

It has to be.  _It is._   Bucky nods and smiles.  “Well, gonna get this breakfast to Steve before it gets cold.  I wanted to surprise him.”

“He’s still sleeping?”

“Probably not, considering how long it took me to do all this,” Bucky says, lifting his trays and his plate of buns.  “But it’s the thought that counts, ain’t it?”

Wanda nods.  “Always.”  Bucky smiles, grateful for her, for all of this and all of their friends and family, as he rounds the island with his things.  She’s surprisingly sneaky, raising her hand just a bit.  One of the rolls glows red before sailing through the air and right into her fingers.  Then she’s bolting with a devious laugh, and Bucky fondly shakes his head.

Back in their suite, it’s quiet, so much so that Bucky wonders for a second if it’s possible Steve is still sleeping.  Bucky was working in the kitchen from before dawn, and now it’s mid-morning.  It’d be really unusual for Steve to still be in bed, and Bucky has to acknowledge a not so pleasant thought that’s been rolling around the back of his head these last few days.  Steve’s been… _fine._   His usual thoughtless, brave, loving self.  In fact, because he doesn’t seem to remember much of anything, he’s been extra protective of Bucky, even more caring and comforting than before.  Typical Steve.  He’s the one who was possessed and used like a pawn in an ugly, supernatural vendetta, and he’s the one acting the most like Bucky is the victim.

Still, it’s hard to erase the memory of what Steve was like when she had his mind, the malice in his eyes, the hatred in his voice, the cruel things he said and what she made him do.  Bucky knows that wasn’t real, not really, because it wasn’t Steve at all.  It was her trying to lash out at him and using Steve to do it.  It’s not like he can confide in Steve how he feels, since Steve doesn’t really know what happened (although he’s probably put two and two together).  No, these memories are going to become silent, hidden scars on his heart, and putting them to rest will take time.

That’s okay, though.  They have time.

Steve is in bed, and Bucky’s concerned for a moment, but he’s just reading from a StarkPad.  He looks up when Bucky comes in.  “Wow.”

“Breakfast?” Bucky offers with a Cheshire-cat grin.  “Made it all myself.”

Steve smiles a huge smile, setting the pad down and sitting up.  He’s bare-chested, miles of flawless skin on display, and his hair’s all askew.  “Awfully nice of you.”

“Gotta make myself useful somehow,” Bucky says, setting the tray across Steve’s lap.  He leans down and plants a kiss on Steve’s messy head.  “My new hobby.  Well, new old hobby.”

“Baking?” Steve asks as he digs into the plate with the sweet rolls.

“Seriously?  Taking care of you, punk.”

Steve looks long-suffering.  “’m fine,” he declares cavalierly around a mouthful of sticky bun.  “And you all need to stop with this.”

“With what?” Bucky asks as he heads over to where Steve obviously opened the blinds earlier.  Outside it’s a gray, autumn day, a little dark yet with sodden clouds, and the naked trees across the large green yard of the complex are quivering in the wind.  He spends a second looking – he always does now – before drawing them again.

“Treatin’ me like I’m gonna break or something,” Steve says.  “I’m not.  I’m completely fine.”  He’s digging into the tray with gusto now, shoveling the eggs in.  He glances up at Bucky with his best little shit grin.  “Just got a little possessed is all.  Not even all that much outside the job description, when you really think about it.”

“Fuck, you’re terrible,” Bucky grumbles.  He plods over and climbs into bed beside Steve and immediately starts sampling everything he made.  “Incorrigible.”  The eggs are a little bland, but all in all, it’s not bad.  “An absolute pain in the ass.”  Steve frowns, and this one’s not fake.  It makes Bucky frown too, and pause in spearing pancake on his fork.  “What?”

“I was, um…”  Steve’s shifting a little, reaching back for the tablet.  “I was reading what Tony sent on this Project: Scorpio business, and there are other victims that haven’t been identified.  Dozens more.  Maybe…  I mean, if you want, if Tony can help us, maybe we can work on trying to put names to the rest of the records.  Like we did with Amelie.”  Bucky can’t help the wince on his face.  The pain is still there.  His involvement.  His guilt.  Steve seems to realize that, and he takes Bucky’s metal hand, raising it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles.  “Might be good to do it.  Might put even more of an end to it, if we can get them at least a little justice.”

He knows Steve doesn’t mean it this way, but all he can think is the path he walked through his victims, the weight of paying for his crimes.  “Yeah,” he agrees.  He _knows_ it’s the right thing to do, just like bringing John’s remains to Amelie’s grave and speaking to her family was the right thing to do.  It’s the true test of strength.  He came back to this world, was given another chance no matter how that chance came to be.  He needs to do what’s moral.  “Yeah, we can do that.”

Steve kisses his hand again.  He smiles.  “Plus it’ll give me something to do that’s not encroaching on Sam’s territory.  He’s already reminded me that I’m retired.”

“You didn’t try to take the shield back, did you?”

“Nah.”  Steve looks a little sheepish.  “Well, I might have tried to hold it once.  Maybe.”

Bucky grunts and grins himself, popping another sticky roll into his mouth and settling back into the headboard.  He chews for a bit, and Steve goes back to eating, too.  Then, after a rather pregnant pause, he sighs.  “Have to admit this whole thing makes me wonder if it’s even possible for us to retire.”

Steve downs the entire glass of orange juice in seemingly one huge gulp.  “What do you mean?  I’m just kidding, Buck.  I don’t want the shield back.”

“No, I mean…”  Bucky sighs, thinking back to when they first arrived at the house, at how even before the nightmare started, it didn’t feel right.  As huge and pretty as the place was, it _never_ quite felt like home.  He’s not sure that was entirely the ghost’s doing.  “Maybe that life can’t be ours.  We’re not cut out for it, Stevie.”  He turns, focuses on Steve’s face.  “Maybe we never were.”  _We’re Captain America and the Winter Soldier.  We’re weapons.  We’re heroes and saviors and murderers.  We’re damaged and brilliant and brutal.  We are who we are, and we can’t run from that._

Steve stares at him evenly.  “So you don’t want to try again somewhere else?  Because we can.  I already started searching through some options with FRIDAY’s help.  Nice places.”  A wry smile twists his lips.  “Not all of them can be haunted, right?  How many more evil spirits can there be?”

“You honestly want an answer to that question?” Bucky says a little self-deprecatingly.  Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky doesn’t let him.  “I don’t know.  Do _you_ want to try again?”

A moment passes where Steve ponders that.  “I just want you to be happy, Buck.”  That’s what he eventually says, and as always, it’s full of genuine sincerity.  It’s his big blue eyes, open and warm and offering, and his big heart on his sleeve.  “I just want you to feel safe and loved.  I don’t care where we are.  Here, someplace else…  Anywhere.  I don’t need anything other than you.”

_I can live on this._

Bucky’s moving without thinking, carefully taking the tray and setting it to the floor a couple feet away from the bed.  Then he’s coming back, sliding across the bed to claim Steve’s mouth in a heated kiss.  Steve’s ready for it, opening his mouth to it, and Bucky plunges his tongue inside, tasting sweet sugar and syrup.  Steve grasps his face, returning the gesture, and the hot, wet slide of his lips on Bucky’s own is inviting and tantalizing.  Steve’s fingers work their way into his hair, tugging the rubber band out, and the brown locks fall loose from the little pony tail they were in.  Pulling away from Steve’s mouth even for a second feels too difficult, too long, but Bucky does because he has to ask.  “Can we?”

Steve watches him with eyes filled with desire, the blue nearly swallowed by black.  “You want to?”

After everything, after how they struggled before with being intimate, after what they nearly lost…  After what she made him dream.  Even the sense of rage and violation he felt about that has gotten quieter these last couple days.  He knows it wasn’t real.  He knows he wouldn’t do such a terrible thing.  He _knows._

And he knows Steve trusts him.  _Don’t take anything for granted._   “I’m ready,” Bucky whispers, laying his metal hand on Steve’s chest.  The silver fingers don’t look so wrong anymore, so violent and unnatural.  “I…  I feel free of it, I think.  Like we’re free of it.  Whatever else, we’re free.”  Steve smiles, brushing Bucky’s hair back to gather it behind his ear.  Bucky smiles, too, a little nervous.  “I – I want to touch you.  Is that–”

“God, Buck, yeah,” Steve murmurs.  “Please.”

Despite all the doubt and uncertainty, everything falls into place easily.  Like it always has.  Like it always will.  Bucky pulls the sheets down where they’re covering Steve’s lap, and Steve scoots underneath him, running his hands up Bucky’s sides and kissing him desperately.  They explore each other like this is a long-awaited reunion before Bucky’s pulling away for a breath and running his lips down Steve’s jaw and to the sensitive place behind his ear.  He nibbles there, tugs Steve’s earlobe between his teeth lightly, a hundred playful memories prodding at him of finding this little erogenous spot back in Brooklyn, teasing it during a stolen moment or two during the war.  He touches Steve’s chest, caresses down his pecs and abs.  Steve watches him with hazy, dreamy eyes as he kisses, licks, suckles.  The more Bucky does, the more he remembers, and the more he knows this is right and as far from what HYDRA did to him as possible.  This is who he was, who he’s always been.

Someone good enough to love Steve Rogers.

Steve grins down at him.  “You’re beautiful, Buck,” he whispers.  “You know that?”

The compliment goes straight to the core of Bucky, making him shiver in joy.  His heart beats warm and fast, right against his breastbone.  “You’re just saying that ’cause you want something.”

“Yeah, you,” Steve whispers, and his own voice sounds shaky with emotion.  “Just you.  Always and forever.”

Bucky can’t even manage a snarky comment.  He’s surging back up, taking Steve’s mouth in a bruising kiss.  Steve wraps himself around him, knees tight to his hips, arms around his back, keeping him close.  It’s so good, so right.  They really are free.  No matter where they go or what they do, they have that, and they have each other.  And they have all the time in the world now.  They really do.

So they take it.  They take their time kissing, and Steve leans up to line Bucky’s throat wetly, gentle presses from his lips and harder swipes of his tongue and teasing little sucks and bites.  Bucky closes his eyes and sinks into it, tipping his head back to give Steve better access.  Another little shiver takes him as Steve moves over to his left shoulder, where there are thick, ropy scars around the joint connecting his metal arm.  He feels weird and exposed and uncomfortable for a moment, but that fades as Steve reverently kisses there, too.  Steve’s careful, wrapping his hand around the arm’s bicep in a gentle hold, tracing his lips over each red, ugly line like he can erase them with his worship.  No one’s ever touched Bucky here with any sort of compassion, let alone love like this.  It’s overwhelming.  “So beautiful,” Steve whispers again, and there’s no doubt.  Nothing but truth and wonder.

Steve leans back, closing his eyes and pulling Bucky’s face closer to his again.  “You think this is a weapon, that you’re a weapon.  You’re not.  You’re not theirs anymore.  And you’re a hero.”  His eyes glisten.  “I…  I still don’t know what happened back there.  I just know you saved me.”

“Steve–”

“And that’s all that matters.  The only thing that could ever matter.”  Steve exhales lowly, a warm breath of air across Bucky’s lips.  “I love you, Buck.”

As he kisses Steve again, Bucky tastes tears, his own or Steve’s – he isn’t sure which.  This kiss is even deeper than those before it, passionate and hungry for affirmation.  Steve’s devouring him, clinging hard like he wants to crawl inside and never leave, and Bucky would let him.  Bucky’s given him everything.  They both have given each other everything.

“Let me?” Steve whispers after what feels like a long time.  Bucky’s gotten hot with need, and he nods.  Steve scoots up and back a bit, rolling to the right to get to the bedside table.  He shuffles around in the drawer for a few seconds that feel like an eternity with how desperate and anxious Bucky feels. Then he’s back with the bottle of lubricant.  Steve slots himself right between Bucky’s thighs.  His eyes are on Bucky’s manhood where it’s prominently tenting his sweatpants.  Still, he’s careful and slow as he works Bucky’s clothes and underwear down, watching Bucky’s eyes now more than anything else, making certain this is alright.  It is.  It’s more than alright.  It feels good.

And it feels even better when Steve wraps his hand around his erection.  He’s still so gentle, not timid but certainly not as demanding and purposeful as he was before they lost each other.  Bucky gives a shivery sigh; it’s been so long.  _So long._ Steve’s long, familiar fingers, the warmth of his palm, the sight of his hand wrapped around him…  It’s almost too much.

Steve watches his face a moment, and then comes the sass.  “God.  I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Then get to it,” Bucky groans around a little laugh.

Steve laughs, too, that does wonders to ease any remaining doubt and loosen the lingering hint of tension.  Steve goes back to kissing his chest and belly as he starts to stroke him, agonizingly slow and steady.  Hot bolts of pleasure jolt through Bucky, down the big muscles of his thighs, up his stomach and back, and he moans, deep and needing.  He can feel Steve’s proud smile against his left pec, and Steve tightens his grip on him and tugs a bit harder.  His lips nibble at the nipple, teasing tickles that have Bucky gasping, before sealing over the little bud and sucking hard.  Bucky feels himself go flushed.  He threads his hands through Steve’s hair and rocks his hips wantonly into Steve’s touch.

Just when he can’t take the sweet torture anymore, Steve’s giving his nipple a lasting kiss and leaning back.  He’s also letting go of Bucky’s manhood, pausing to open the tube and squeeze lube into his hands.  He takes another second to warm it up and spread it, rubbing his palms and fingers together, before grasping Bucky’s hip and wrapping his now wet fingers around his length again.  “God,” Bucky moans.  Steve smiles anew, mouthing at the previously neglected nipple with gusto, and all the sudden Bucky can feel ecstasy coming, fast and hard and wonderful.  Steve’s stroking him the way he always used to, the way Bucky likes, twisting his wrist just a bit and pausing every so often to thumb and swirl and tease around the head.  The wet suction on his chest, the confident grip between his legs, the feel of Steve all around him…  “Wait, wait,” he gasps.  He forces his eyes open, forces himself out of that haze where there’s nothing but the pleasure he’s chasing.  “Stevie–”

“What?”  Steve’s breathing damply into his skin, but his hand stills and he shivers himself a little. That’s a blatant tell of just how much he’s enjoying this.  “What?”

This is heaven, and he’s close, _so close_ , but it’s not enough.  “I want…  Please, let me…”

“Whatever you want, Bucky,” Steve swears.  He runs his thumb down Bucky’s hard length again, a sweet, tantalizing caress.  Bucky can see he’s hard too, extremely so, the front of his boxes bulging and a little damp where Bucky’s been moving his hips over him.  “Whatever you need.  I’m yours.”

Until now there was so much fear wrapped around this, fear about touching Steve again, about what _his_ touch meant to Steve and to himself.  Having sex seemed insurmountable when it was so tightly tied to proving to himself that he can touch and not hurt, that he can be gentle and loving and cause pleasure not pain.  But after the things she made him see, made him dream…  Inexplicably those fears can’t be further away.  He knows better now.  Now it’s about realizing that he’s not the sum of all the violence he’s caused and the hell through which he’s been.  Now it’s about what they’ve become, not just who they were.  Bucky sees the trust in Steve’s eyes.  It’s the same trust that’s always been there.  A constant that’s never wavered.

_Steve trusts me, and he wants me to touch him.  I can be good, too._

So he pushes Steve back gently and gets off him to get the sheets and blankets down and further out of the way.  Steve lays flatter on his back, shifting lower the mattress a little, and wriggles to get his boxers off with an excited, adorable grin.  Bucky looks at him laid out like this, naked as the day he was born, strong and lean and gorgeous, and he can’t help but feel unworthy of it.  There’s not a scar on him, all the cuts and slashes and lacerations from days ago long gone.  He’s unblemished, unmarked, untouched by darkness.  Incorruptible.  Perfect.

But Bucky remembers thinking the very same thing, kneeling over a much smaller Steve who was bruised and marred and knock-kneed and hard angles and thin flesh.  Nothing’s changed.  Not really, not where it counts.  Steve’s still Steve, and Bucky’s still Bucky, even after everything they’ve been through.

And he wants this.  He wants to make Steve feel _amazing_.

He surges in for another kiss, hotly claiming Steve’s open mouth.  He kicks off his own underwear and pants where they’re bunched up around his thighs and moves between Steve’s legs, spreading them.  He’s slow and deliberate and careful as he kisses his way down Steve’s chest, as he laves at a nipple before exploring the firm hills and valleys of his abs.  Then he grips Steve’s hips.  Kisses down his erection, which is flushed red with need and practically dripping onto his lower belly.  He licks and suckles.  Teases and torments and relishes every whimper and whine.  Lets that empower him, embolden him, and he reaches for the lube as he takes Steve deeper, hollowing out his cheeks.  It doesn’t take much at all for Steve to start to come apart, but Bucky doesn’t relent for a moment, following Steve’s jerky movements as he writhes and rolls his hips only to stop and try to keep himself motionless.  It’s incredible, the rush of power and pride, that he can make Steve feel this way.  That he can _still_ make Steve feel this way.  He’s forgotten how it feels, to have that control, to _give_ like this.

Steve’s fingers card through his hair, not tugging though they do tighten as Bucky does all the things that drive him wild.  Memories come back easily now, guiding him in bringing Steve right to the edge.  He pulls off because he wants more, but he has to know.  “Is it alright if I…  Can I…”

Steve whimpers and spreads his legs wider, propping his hips higher until they are nearly in Bucky’s lap.  “Please…”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate anymore.  He spreads lube on his flesh and blood fingers before sliding his hand down V of Steve’s hips, along the crease of his thigh.  He resumes kissing there, boldly and quickly moving his mouth back to Steve’s slick length.  He takes it back into his mouth, relishing the gasp of pleasure that earns him, the weight against his tongue, even the taste, and he presses down lower between Steve’s legs against his entrance.  There’s resistance; even without the serum, it’s been so long that of course there will be.  But Bucky’s gentle and insistent, wetting and massaging the taut muscle until it softens and allows him to dip his fingertip inside.

Steve groans.  His eyes are blown wide, glazed, and Bucky’s afraid for a moment he’s hurt him.  But that’s clearly not the case, and Steve relaxes.  “Don’t stop,” he whispers.  “Please don’t stop.”

That’s all the solace Bucky needs.  He sucks Steve down again, pushing his finger in deeper.  Steve cries out, canting his hips up.  He’s blood hot inside, so very tight, and this is familiar.  How it feels.  How it felt to have Steve inside him.  Seventy years later, and it seems only recent and familiar.  Bucky leans up to kiss Steve’s lips where he’s panting on the pillow.  Steve’s sweating, flushed, beautiful and begging.  “More, Bucky.  Please.  More!”

Bucky obliges him gladly.  He pulls his finger back out, coats his hand in an excess of lube, and returns, working two digits inside him now.  Steve’s clutches at him, kisses feverishly as if he needs the connection.  He rolls his hips with each thrust of Bucky’s fingers, and it doesn’t take much at all for Bucky to remember what to do, to find that place inside him.  Touching it electrifies Steve, and he keens, eyes going wide for a second as if he’s forgotten how much he loves this.  Maybe he has.  Bucky grins, kissing him more sweetly, and crooks his fingers to prod the spot again.  “Jesus,” Steve moans, closing his eyes this time.  “Bucky…”

Satisfied with himself, Bucky just hums softly, kissing and kissing, building a rhythm with his fingers that has Steve whimpering into his mouth.  Bucky hungrily drinks in each sound he makes.  He takes his time and stretches Steve carefully.  He’s not going to be rushed, not going to let this be anything but perfect.  After everything that’s happened, Steve deserves that and not even the slightest discomfort.  Bucky recalls it can burn or even hurt from when Steve’s worked him over like this, and sometimes he thinks Steve liked that, but right now…

This can’t be anything other than soft and tender.

Once Steve’s lax and pliant beneath him, he slides his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets.  And then he asks, because that easy intimacy, the easy understanding, that they used to have isn’t there, not yet.  “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Steve breathes.  “Always.”  The trust is bright in his eyes.

And Bucky finally feels worthy of it.  He finally feels he can trust himself.  He takes the bottle of lube again and covers his hands anew, rubbing them along his erection.  It’s torture to do it; his own need became a quieter, distant thing while he was preparing Steve, but now it’s throbbing, aching.  He waits, though, waits kneeling between Steve’s legs with one hand around himself and the other on Steve’s knee.  Waits until he has Steve’s gaze on him.

And Steve smiles and nods.  “Go on, Buck.  I want you.”

Bucky smiles back.  He pushes at Steve’s slackened entrance, and there’s that resistance again, just a little, but it gives way, and he’s able to slide forward.  Steve is still, holding his gaze as he slowly works himself inside.  He watches Steve’s face, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort, but there’s nothing.  Nothing but certainty.  And pleasure.  And love.

It feels like it takes forever and no time at all before he’s completely within Steve’s body.  And there are trite thoughts floating through his head, silly nonsense like how this is akin to coming home after all this time, how this is just like finding completion, like being whole again.  He doesn’t acknowledge them.  The pleasure’s too sweet, Steve so hot and tight and wet around him, and the experience is beyond description.  The world fades, the road that led them here disappearing behind them, the road before them inconsequential.  There’s no time.  No trauma.  No fears or worries or scars.  And for all his concern that what she did would taint this, it’s not tainted at all.  It’s _nothing_ like the nightmare he had.  Nothing obscene or cruel.  Those awful sensations and memories – the lies forced upon him – are easy to keep away, so easy in fact it’s as if they’re not there at all.  This moment is new and different yet familiar and the same all at once.  It’s just the two of them, and there’s nothing between them.

Bucky finally finds it within himself to roll his hips, a long, delicious push, and Steve moans, shivering, hugging Bucky’s flanks with his thighs.  Bucky’s tempted to ask him if it hurts, but he doesn’t.  He doesn’t need to.  Steve’s lips are kiss-swollen, bitten red, and his head’s tipped back in what looks to be breath-taking euphoria.  He’s reaching for Bucky almost blindly, and it occurs to Bucky then that Steve is feeling all of the same things, too.  The reaffirmation of their relationship after seventy years of separation, after a literal lifetime of suffering.  How incredible that is.  How powerful.

_Perfect._

It doesn’t last long.  It can’t.  Bucky kisses up Steve’s throat, thrusting harder and faster, driving himself as deeply into Steve’s body as he can be.  Steve’s scrambling at his back, clutching with one hand, and the other he’s pushing between their sweaty, gasping stomachs to wrap around himself.  Bucky loses himself, dropping his face down into Steve’s neck, burying it there, moving mindlessly, trying to hold on.  He has to hold on until Steve gets his.

And Steve does.  The next thrust hits just right inside him, and he’s strokes himself just the way he needs, and he climaxes with a cry.  Bucky feels it more than sees it, Steve’s body going taut, his muscles rippling and drawing Bucky’s own release out of him.  He rocks through it, grunting raggedly into Steve’s shoulder.  It’s incredible, so good it almost hurts.  So good that he’s swept away in it.  Floating and free.  After all this time, it feels…  What is it they say?  _A little death._

That little idea sticks in his head when he can think again.  It’s so ridiculous after everything that’s happened he chuckles.  Cooling sweat makes him shiver, and he tastes salt, Steve’s sweat and his own tears, as he kisses lazily at Steve’s neck.  Steve quivers as he comes down, pressing his face into the damp skin at Bucky’s shoulder.  Then he’s laughing softly, too, running his free hand up Bucky’s back.  Overcome with joy, with this intense, blissful sense of _triumph,_ Bucky laughs even more, and so does Steve, until they’re both loud with it, loud and free and _happy._

They can still have it all.  They can and will live on this.

After a while, their laughter dies to giggles, and Bucky lifts his face from the warm crook of Steve’s neck.  Steve’s deep blue eyes meet his, soft and open, and he smiles.  “Good?”

Bucky grins and leans down for a kiss.  “Yeah.”

From a dark, cold lab in a HYDRA base in Italy in 1943 to here…  They’ve fought many battles against evil along that twisted, awful road.  Some of them they’ve even won.

But this?  This feels like the biggest triumph of them all.

* * *

And it should be.  That should be the end of it.

Should be.  Seemed like it was.

But then Bucky’s dreaming.  It’s one of those dreams where he _knows_ he’s dreaming, this weird sense of fakeness hanging over everything.  This is a memory, he thinks, though he doesn’t know from when.  After that dark, cold lab in Azzano.  After the fall.

After HYDRA took him.

They were dragging him to the chair.  His thoughts were scattered, but he knew…  He thought they sent him to take someone, to kidnap a young woman and bring her to them.  They were working on a new project, trying a different approach to making assets and tools and weapons in their war on this world.  _The new fist of HYDRA._

They were doing this because he was not enough.  He was not powerful enough.  Not for a new world, a new war.  And he was – _is_ – a failure. They deployed him, gave him his orders, and he didn’t follow them.  He shouldn’t have memories, but he did.  He remembered seeing the girl in her village, a girl with brown hair and sweet eyes and a kind smile.  He remembered thinking he should complete his mission.  The village was not well populated, and her father and mother were unsuspecting.  She was an easy target.

But he had other memories, too.  As he’d crouched in the shadows, watching this girl sing in her little garden and play with her siblings, he thought of someone else.  A small, frail boy with floppy blond hair and blue eyes.  That same boy, standing in between the evil of the world no matter how small and frail he was.  That same boy, a man now, a strong man with a shield that protected the weak, that safeguarded peace and freedom.

That protected someone like her from someone like him.

 _“You told me once that we_ _handle everything together, and that includes taking on all the bad shit in the world.  We protect each other.  I take care of you, and you take care of me.  I love you, Buck.”_

He’d remembered that boy, and it had stayed his hand.  He returned to base without his target, his mission objectives unaccomplished.

So now they were taking him to the chair.  He was fighting, struggling, his metal arm stained with blood as he punched and crushed and killed.  They were too many – _cut off one head and another shall take its place_ – and he couldn’t get free.  He never could.  They forced him into the chair, strapped his arms down, locked his legs into place.  And they came with their injections, with their drugs that drove his mind into ruin.  A young man who looks horrified and panicked jabbed his arm with needles.

And then Zola.  _“Thank you, Doctor_ _Müller.”_   The young man skittered off, too much of a coward to act on the sympathy in his eyes.  Zola didn’t even watch him go.  He appraised Bucky coldly, clearly disappointed.  _“You failed in your mission.”_

 _“You can’t make me do this,”_ Bucky seethed, fighting as the rest of the doctors and researchers moved the equipment into position.  He knew what was coming, but even fear of that was not enough to still his defiance.  _“I won’t do this!”_

_“Clearly there’s a fault in the programming.”_

_“Let me go!”_

_“The subject has recalled facts from his past that have interfered with fulfilling his objectives.”_

_“I won’t do it!  I won’t!  I’d rather fucking die, you hear me?”_

_“Not an option,”_ Zola smartly replied.  _“And furthermore meaningless.  Do you really think that would stop us?  That that will end anything?”_   He shook his head as though amused, his beady eyes sadistically gleeful behind his spectacles.  _“Never.  You will never escape us.”_

Bucky sagged in exhausted defeat.  _“No…  Why?  Why?”_

 _“Because you belong to HYDRA, Sergeant Barnes.”_   Bucky sobbed.  _“And HYDRA is a beautiful parasite.  Everything it infests is corrupted.  Everything.  It goes on and on.”_ Zola smiled at Bucky’s despair.  Then he nodded to his men.  _“Wipe him.  Start fresh.  And then send him back out there to bring the girl back.  No mistakes this time.”_

_“Yes, Doctor.”_

Zola turned to leave, and Bucky was helpless as they started fitting the machine to his head.  He was terrified, because _he knew what was coming_.  Every time they did this to him, they took a little more away from him, a little more that didn’t come back.  He didn’t want to lose the blond-haired boy.  He didn’t want them to take that!

And the anger inside grew and killed like poison, a parasite all its own.  _“You fucking bastard!”_ he spat, haplessly drowning in his rage.  _“I’ll find a way to kill you!  I swear to God, I will!  I’ll find a way to end this!”_

 _“No, you won’t,”_ Zola said as he reached the door.  _“You have your orders, soldier.”_

The machine hummed to life, and the electricity charged, surged, _burned_ , and he screamed–

–only he’s not screaming.  Bucky jolts awake, dizzy, panicked, disoriented.  The cry is loud and hoarse, echoing through their bedroom at the complex, and he rolls over in bed to see Steve locked in the grips of what’s clearly a horrific nightmare.  Bucky grasps his arm, tugging gently, terrified himself to see Steve like this.  “Steve?  Steve!  Wake up!  _Steve!”_

Steve wakes up.  He lurches upward, absolutely soaked in perspiration and white as a ghost.  His eyes are huge and dazed as he hurriedly glances around the room.  “Steve?” Bucky asks softly, scared too.  “Steve–”

Steve’s gaze shoots to him, and such a look of utter misery crosses his face.  Then suddenly he’s up, staggering out of bed, stumbling across the floor, naked and shivering.  He bursts into the bathroom, and Bucky hears him retching.  Shocked, he shakily jumps up and follows, leaving behind the bed that was so recently warm and safe with their love-making but that’s now drenched in sweat and cold.  He nearly trips over the unfinished breakfast tray as he rushes across the room.

Inside the bathroom, Steve’s hunched over the toilet.  Bucky winces at the sound of him throwing up, the deep, miserable heaves, and runs to his side.  He skids to his knees beside him.  “Steve, God, what’s the matter?  Sweetheart, what happened?”  Steve can’t answer, holding onto the rim of the toilet for dear life, it seems, as he sobs and quivers.  Fear makes the room seem like it’s spinning, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do.  With a shaking hand, he touches Steve’s back.  “Steve?  Steve!”

Steve keens.  It’s a low, desperate sound, ripped from the core of him.  He lifts himself finally and turns, grabbing onto Bucky, grabbing hard.  His fingertips press bruises into Bucky’s side, and he buries his reddened face into Bucky’s chest.  The sob he lets out is anguished and tormented.  “I hurt you!”

“What?” Bucky asks.

Steve can hardly speak.  He seems on the verge of hyperventilation, of hysteria.  “I hurt you!  I did it!”  Bucky still doesn’t understand for a moment, staring at Steve’s mussed head where it’s burrowed into him.  “I dreamed…  I remember it all now!  All of it!  I made you – I…  I said terrible things.  Awful things!  I made you…  And I stabbed you, in – in the kitchen, I stabbed you, and you were bleeding, and I can feel it–”

“No,” Bucky whispers, horrified. _Oh, God, no._

“I can feel the knife go into you, feel how it hurt you, and you were bleeding, begging me to stop…”  The words come faster and faster, slurred and frantic.  Tears and snot slick Bucky’s chest.  “I didn’t stop.  I made you fight me!  I made you…  Oh, God, Buck!  I didn’t mean it!  I didn’t mean it!  You died because of me…”

“No, Steve,” Bucky moans.  His eyes burn with tears, and he squeezes them shut in frustration.  “It wasn’t you!  It wasn’t you!  She made you do it!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve cries.  The shame in his voice is utterly damning.  “It doesn’t matter.  I still hurt you.”  He chokes on a scream, huddling close.  _“I still did it!”_

Bucky hears that, and something dies inside him.  Hope.  Faith.  He’s not sure what it is, but it hurts.  It hurts more than anything.  “Steve, you didn’t…  You’re not…  It’s not your…”

But there’s nothing to say, no way to take away the pain.  There’s no way to erase the memories of the evil you’ve done.  Once they’re free from the darkness, you can’t put them back.  You can’t ignore them or forget them or run from them.  No, they demand their due.  They lay down their own condemnation, and there are no excuses.  There’s no defense, no hope for absolution or forgiveness.  There’s no escape.  The memories…  They’re their own punishment, and there’s no way to stop it.  Bucky knows.  He knows better than anyone.

Now Steve knows, too.

Maybe that’s what she wanted all along.  A legacy of hate.  The unending penance.

_It goes on and on._

Steve barks a loud sob into Bucky’s shoulder, raw and broken, and there’s nothing Bucky can do, nothing other than hold him close and share in the misery.

Outside, it’s starting to rain. 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> The ghost in question makes Bucky have hallucinations/waking nightmares in which he hurts Steve quite badly. In one such scene, Bucky rapes Steve. To be clear, this is a dream; it's not real, but it's upsetting. In addition, there's a lot of inherent mind/body violation in what the ghost does to Steve and Bucky (and in what HYDRA did to Bucky). Finally, there's discussion of the abuse, torture, rape, and murder of another prisoner of HYDRA.


End file.
